The inner courtyard resembled a field after a violent storm.
Bodies scattered, muffled groans, makeshift weapons strewn across the ground like broken toys. Some men tried to crawl away; others remained too still to feign anything. The smell of blood mingled with dust and stale sweat, creating an almost suffocating atmosphere.
In the center of it all, Strax sat.
Literally.
He was perched on the back of one of the defeated thieves, who lay face down on the ground, trembling, desperately trying not to move. Strax's boots, in turn, rested comfortably on the chest of another unfortunate man, used as an improvised stool. The man could barely breathe, but each attempt to draw air made Strax press his foot a little harder, just to remind him who was in charge.
The scene was… wrong.
Not in a moral sense—that had long since passed—but in contrast. Strax seemed too relaxed. One elbow resting on his leg, his chin on his hand, a wide, amused grin plastered on his face.
