Leonhardt hadn't commanded a massacre.
Those who dropped their weapons. Those who knelt. Those who trembled but didn't raise a blade—Leonhardt let them live.
"Terror lasts longer when it's remembered," he'd said.
And his goblins obeyed.
The second ring had fallen, with the guards routed or dead. The banner so Astrea torn and scattered in the streets. What remained was a crowd, dozens of lesser nobles, merchants, housekeepers, and mistresses, all packed together in front of a cracked stone manor. Their pride was gone. All that remained was fear.
A few women sobbed. One man pissed himself trying to crawl away before a goblin boot crushed his hand. The goblin didn't kill him. Just leaned closer and smiled.
Gobbolas stood atop a crumbled wall, bow slung across his back, barking orders with a sneer. Gobomir, bloodstained and still breathing hard, rested against a pillar beside his shadow wolf. Neither spoke of mercy. But neither raised their blades.
