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If the first hour belonged to the raw, terrifying speed of the 'Bullet Train', the next session belonged to the Wolfpack.
Aarav Pathak had retreated to the outfield, his spell of 6-6-0-2 having ripped open the wound. Now, Mohammed Siraj and Jasprit Bumrah with Md. Shami were there to pour salt into it. And they weren't using a shaker; they were pouring it by the bucketload.
The atmosphere at Lord's had turned feral. The polite applause of the Members Stand was drowned out by the guttural roars of the Indian team. Every dot ball was cheered like a boundary. Every play-and-miss was followed by a verbal volley.
Rory Burns, still nursing a headache from Aarav's thunderbolt earlier, looked like a man walking through a minefield. Beside him, Joe Root, the English captain, was trying to construct a rescue mission, batting on 15.
Mohammed Siraj doesn't just run in; he bursts. He is an emotional bowler, fueled by momentum and passion.
Over 18: Siraj to Rory Burns.
Burns was shuffling across his crease, his feet heavy, his mind clearly still replaying the impact of the ball on his helmet. Siraj sensed the fear. He didn't bowl the outswinger. He went for the wobble seam—the ball that lands and does its own thing.
Ball 18.3: Length ball, angling in. Burns tried to flick it to the leg side, closing the face of the bat too early. The ball nipped away just a fraction off the seam. Leading edge.
It didn't go far. It looped gently, agonizingly, to mid-off. Mohammed Shami ran forward, dived forward, and scooped it up inches from the turf.
Rory Burns c Shami b Siraj 18England: 35/3
Siraj didn't celebrate with a high-five. He put his finger to his lips, staring at the Barmy Army. "Shhhhh!"
Sunil Gavaskar (Comms): "There it is! The pressure tells! Burns was never comfortable after that blow to the head. Siraj capitalizes brilliantly. And look at the silence he demands! The Indians are all over them!"
Jonny Bairstow walked out. The man with the point to prove. The man who had been chirping from silly mid-off yesterday.
Virat Kohli stood at slip, clapping his hands. "Come on, Miyan! He likes to talk! Let's see if he likes to play!"
Siraj steamed in. Ball 26.1: Bairstow, aggressive by nature, tried to punch Siraj through the covers. But Siraj got the ball to jag back in sharply. It cut him in half. The ball rapped the inside of the thigh pad. "HOWZAT!"
Not out. But the stare Siraj gave Bairstow could have melted steel. "Play the ball, Jonny!" Siraj shouted, walking back to his mark. "Don't look at me!"
Bairstow muttered something back. Siraj stopped. He walked back towards the batsman. Virat had to jog from slip to pull Siraj away, though Virat was grinning the whole time.
While Siraj was lighting fires at one end, Jasprit Bumrah was performing a surgical dissection at the other.
Joe Root was batting on 33. He was the only thing standing between India and victory. He looked composed, playing late, leaving well.
But Bumrah had a plan.
Over 27: Bumrah to Root.
He bowled three balls wide outside off stump, tempting the drive. Root left them all. Then, Bumrah changed the angle. He went wide of the crease.
Ball 27.4: It angled in. Root, expecting the ball to straighten, played inside the line. But the ball held its line perfectly. It kissed the outside edge. A feather.
The ball flew to first slip. Virat Kohli didn't have to move. He swallowed it at waist height.
Joe Root c Kohli b Bumrah 33England: 77/4
The stadium erupted. Virat threw the ball into the ground, screaming, veins popping in his neck. He pointed at Bumrah, who let out a rare, primal roar.
Nasser Hussain (Comms): "Massive moment! The big fish is gone! Joe Root, the man who held England together, is gone for 33! Bumrah with the angle, Kohli with the catch. England is in tatters here!"
England was reeling. But Siraj wasn't done.
Moeen Ali came and went. Siraj bowled a beauty that straightened off the seam. Moeen poked at it. Edge. Into the gloves of Rishabh Pant.
Moeen Ali c Pant b Siraj 13England: 90/5
Then, Jonny Bairstow. He had fought his way to a gritty 20s. But Siraj was relentless. He went round the wicket, changing the angle. He bowled a heavy ball that kicked up from a length. Bairstow was surprised by the bounce. The ball hit the splice of the bat and lobbed to Shubhman Gill (substitute fielder) at mid-wicket.
Jonny Bairstow c Sub b Siraj 28England: 120/6
Siraj had 4 wickets. He was running around the outfield like a man possessed, pointing to the name on the back of his jersey.
Ollie Robinson didn't last long either, trapped LBW by a razor-sharp yorker from Bumrah.
England: 140/7.
We needed 3 wickets. They needed 182 runs.
But just when we thought we would wrap it up before lunch, the English lower order found a spine.
Jos Buttler was joined by Sam Curran.
Buttler, who had been the architect of the sledging yesterday, decided to shut up and bat. He blocked. He left. He dead-batted everything. Curran, the pest who always scored runs against India, started finding gaps.
They blocked. And blocked. Overs ticked by. 150/7. 160/7.
The aggression from our bowlers turned into frustration. Shami bowled a bouncer that hit Buttler on the helmet. Buttler just changed the helmet and carried on. No words. Just survival.
Lunch was called. England: 175/7.Target: 302.
We walked off the field. The job wasn't done.
The War Room: Lunch Break
The dressing room was quieter than usual. The euphoria of the morning session had been dampened by the stubborn partnership of Buttler and Curran. They had consumed 15 overs for just 35 runs, but more importantly, they were eating up time.
I sat in the corner, an ice pack strapped to my lower back. The adrenaline dump from the first spell had left me stiff. My body felt like a bruised peach.
Ravi Shastri walked in, a plate of fruits in his hand. He looked at the whiteboard.
"Three wickets," Shastri said, chewing a grape. "That's it. But these two are digging in. Buttler is playing for the draw. He's not looking to score."
Ajinkya Rahane nodded. "They are waiting for the soft ball. The ball is 40 overs old now. It's stopped swinging."
Virat Kohli was pacing. He hadn't sat down. He was shadow-batting with a stump. "We need pace," Virat muttered. "Bumrah is tired. Siraj has bowled 10 overs on the trot. Shami is unlucky."
He stopped pacing and looked at me.
"Aarav."
I looked up, wincing slightly as I shifted my position. "Yes, Skip."
"How is the body?"
"It's fine," I lied. It wasn't fine. It throbbed.
"Don't give me the hero talk," Virat said sharply, but his eyes were soft. "Can you bowl? Really bowl?"
"I can bowl," I said firmly. "Give me the ball."
"Not yet," Shastri interjected. "Not immediately after lunch. You're stiff. If you go out there cold, you'll snap a hamstring."
The management trio—Kohli, Shastri, Rahane - huddled.
"Here is the plan," Virat said, turning back to the team. "We start with Jadeja and Shami. Let the game drift for 20 minutes. Let Buttler and Curran relax. Let them think the storm has passed."
He pointed at me. "You go to the physio now. extensive warm-up. Heat creams. Stretching. I want you ready in 40 minutes. 6 or 7 overs after lunch. When they are comfortable... that's when the Bullet Train hits them again."
I nodded. "Understood."
The game resumed. As predicted, it was slow.
Ravindra Jadeja wheeled away quickly, rushing through his overs. Buttler defended with soft hands. Mohammed Shami bowled a disciplined line, but the old ball wasn't doing much.
The crowd quieted down. The Barmy Army started singing Jerusalem, sensing a potential great escape. A draw at Lord's, chasing 302, would be a moral victory for them after being 11/2.
Nasser Hussain (Comms): "This is good cricket from England. Buttler has put his ego in his pocket. Curran is supporting him well. If they bat till Tea... who knows? India looks a bit flat after the break. The energy has dropped."
Sunil Gavaskar (Comms): "It's the lull before the storm, Nasser. Don't mistake patience for fatigue. Kohli is rotating his bowlers. He is waiting for something."
On the field, I was fielding at deep fine leg. I wasn't standing still. I was stretching. High knees. Lunges. Arm rotations. I could feel the heat cream burning on my back. The pain was still there, but it was dull noise now.
Over 52: England 190/7. Buttler and Curran had added 50 runs. The partnership was becoming dangerous.
Virat looked at me from mid-off. He didn't wave. He just tapped his wrist. Time.
I nodded. I jogged towards the umpire, handing my cap to the umpire.
The crowd noticed. A ripple went through the stands.
Shaun Pollock (Comms): "Wait a minute. Look who is marking his run-up. The Bullet Train is back at the station. Aarav Pathak is warming up. He hasn't bowled since that devastating opening spell of 6 overs. Kohli has held him back for this exact moment."
Nasser Hussain (Comms): "This is the danger period for England. Aarav is fresh(er). He has extreme pace. Buttler and Curran have been facing 135kmph. Now they have to adjust to 150kmph again. This is a massive test."
I stood at the top of my mark. I looked at Jos Buttler. He was looking at me, tapping his bat a little harder than usual. He remembered the banter. He remembered the red hands of Pant.
I took a deep breath. The pain in my back flared, then faded under the weight of resolve.
"Three wickets," I whispered to myself.
I started the run-up.
The train had left the station.
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The air grew colder, but the heat in the middle was suffocating. The silence that had fallen over the ground was heavy, pregnant with the kind of tension that only Test cricket on a fifth day can produce.
I stood at the top of my mark at the Pavilion End. The "Bullet Train" was back on the tracks, fueled by a cocktail of adrenaline, pain, and cold resolve. My back ached with a dull throb, but it was a distant noise, drowned out by the singular focus of the hunt.
Jos Buttler was on strike. He looked like a man under siege. He had battled hard for his 25 runs, surviving over 90 balls of hostile, probing bowling. He had taken blows to the body, survived close calls, and watched his partners fall. He thought the worst was over. He thought he had weathered the storm and earned the right to see out the day.
He was wrong. The storm hadn't passed; it was just taking a breath.
The crowd buzzed—a low-frequency hum of nervous energy that vibrated through the soles of my boots. The Barmy Army, usually so vocal with their trumpets and chants of Jerusalem, had fallen silent. They were watching with bated breath, sensing that the guillotine was raised.
Sanjay Manjrekar (Comms): "Here we go. The change of bowling everyone was waiting for. Aarav Pathak returns to the attack. His figures are frankly ridiculous—6 overs, 6 maidens, 0 runs. He hasn't conceded a single run today. Buttler has set himself for extreme pace. He knows Aarav bowls 145 plus consistently. This isn't just a test of technique; it's a test of nerve and reaction time."
Alastair Cook (Comms): "It's the right move from Kohli, absolutely. He's gone for the knockout punch. But it's a risk. Aarav has been in the field for hours. If he is stiff, if he bowls a few loose ones or offers width, it releases the pressure valve instantly. Buttler is waiting for that release. He needs to be disciplined, but he also needs to be ready to pounce."
I looked at Buttler. He was tapping his bat aggressively on the crease, his stance wide, weight pitched forward. He was bracing himself, tensing his forearms for the impact of a 150kmph missile. He was ready for war.
Ball 1:
I turned at the top of my mark. The crowd rhythm started—a slow clap that accelerated with my run-up. Thud. Thud. Thud.
I charged in. The run-up was smooth, rhythmic, predatory. I accelerated through the crease, my arm speed a blur, my body arching like a whip. To the naked eye, and to Buttler, the action was identical to every thunderbolt I had bowled that day. It screamed 'pace'.
Buttler committed. He planted his front foot, tightening his grip, ready to block a 150kmph delivery.
At the very last millisecond, just as my arm reached the vertical, I didn't snap my wrist. I held the ball back deep in the palm, rolling the fingers down the side in a classic off-cutter grip.
102 kmph.
It wasn't a missile. It was a looped full toss. A gentle, floating butterfly released into the heart of a hurricane.
Buttler's eyes almost popped out of his head. The ball seemed to hang in the air, mocking him. He had already triggered his fast-twitch muscle response. His bat came down with the speed of a guillotine, way too early. He realized the deception mid-swing and tried to check his shot, contorting his body awkwardly, his wrists locking up as he shoveled the ball back down the pitch like a man trying to kill a fly with a sledgehammer.
He stared at me, genuine shock etched on his face. It was the look of a man who had braced for a car crash and been hit by a pillow.
I walked down the pitch in my follow-through, stopping just feet away from him. The silence in the stadium was broken by a ripple of confused laughter. I didn't glare. I smiled—a wide, terrifying smile that didn't reach my eyes.
"Now the fun begins, Jos," I whispered, the words cutting through the quiet.
Buttler didn't respond. He shifted his weight, tapping the pitch nervously. He looked unsettled, his rhythm shattered. The mind game was won before the physical battle had even truly begun.
Sunil Gavaskar (Comms): "Oh, you cheeky boy! That is brilliant! That is absolute genius! He has shown him the 150kmph heat all day, terrorized the top order with pace, and first up to the set batsman, he bowls a slower full toss. Buttler looks like he's seen a ghost. That is mental disintegration at its finest. He's messing with his internal clock."
Ball 2:
I walked back to my mark, spinning the ball. The smile was gone, replaced by a cold mask of focus. The trap was set. He was doubting his reflexes now.
Ball 2. I ran in. No tricks this time. No mercy. I hit the crease and unleashed the fury stored in my shoulders.
149.2 kmph.
It was a yorker. A laser-guided missile tailing in late towards the toes. Buttler was still processing the slow ball, his mind second-guessing the speed. He was late getting his bat down. Fatally late. He tried to dig it out, jamming his bat down in panic.
He managed to get the toe of the bat on it, jamming it into the ground to stop his stumps from being shattered. But the momentum was too much. As he dug it out, his feet slipped on the crease, unable to handle the sudden shift in weight.
Jos Buttler, the England vice-captain, the elegantly destructive batsman, fell over backward. He landed hard on his backside, legs splayed in the air like a cartoon character, his bat flying to the side.
The reaction was instant and cruel. The Indian slip cordon erupted in laughter. Rishabh Pant was pointing and cackling, slapping his gloves together. Even Virat Kohli, usually so intense, let out a bark of cruel amusement, clapping his hands high above his head.
It was embarrassing. It was the ultimate dominance of a fast bowler—stripping a world-class batsman of his dignity and making him look like a novice on a village green.
I walked back, wiping the ball on my trousers, staring at him as he scrambled to his feet, dusting off his whites. The embarrassment would make him angry. Anger clouds judgment. Anger makes you make mistakes.
Ball 3:
Nasser Hussain (Comms): "Well, the Indians are enjoying themselves, aren't they? Laughing at a player slipping over. It's all a bit schoolyard, isn't it? A bit unnecessary. Just get on with the game. You're winning; show some class."
Sanjay Manjrekar (Comms): "It's intimidation, Nasser. It's not just about the wicket; it's about dominance. They are breaking him down piece by piece. First the mind with the slow ball, then the balance with the yorker. Now? I suspect they will target the body."
Ball 3. I stood at the mark. I didn't look at the stumps. I looked at the England badge on his helmet.
I ran in. Harder. Faster. 151.0 kmph.
It was a vicious bouncer. It didn't loop; it hurried onto him, skidding off the hard length. Buttler, rattled by the fall and the laughter, tried to regain his authority. He tried to hook. Bad idea. He was late. The ball was on him before his hands could complete the arc.
CRACK.
The sound was sickening—plastic meeting leather at terminal velocity. The ball slammed into the side of his helmet grille, right near the temple. The impact was violent. The helmet didn't just rattle; the force unbuckled the chin strap violently. The helmet flew off his head, spinning away towards square leg like a detached turret.
Buttler spun around with the momentum of the shot, his hair flying wild. He tried to stand tall, to show he was unhurt, but his equilibrium was gone. He staggered. He took a step to the left, then a drunken step to the right, his legs turning to jelly.
He sat down heavily on the pitch, holding his head, his eyes squeezing shut.
The laughter stopped instantly, replaced by the sharp intake of breath from 30,000 people. The silence was absolute.
The England physio sprinted onto the field, bag bouncing.
Alastair Cook (Comms): "That is nasty. That is serious, serious heat. Buttler is a tough lad, he's been in the trenches, but nobody takes 151 to the head and shakes it off easily. The helmet did its job, thank goodness, but the shockwave... look at him. He's dizzy. He doesn't know where he is."
Sunil Gavaskar (Comms): "This is what Virat Kohli meant by 'hell'. The Indian pacers are not holding back. It's hostile. It's brutal. And frankly, after what England did to our tail yesterday—targeting Axar, targeting Shami—it is karma coming back around. It's uncomfortable to watch, but this is Test cricket at its most primal."
Nasser Hussain (Comms): "Karma or not, you don't want to see people getting hurt. The Barmy Army is letting Aarav know what they think. Listen to the boos raining down. They are furious."
The boos cascaded down from the stands, a wall of noise crashing against the pitch. I stood at the top of my mark, drinking calmly from a water bottle, completely indifferent to the noise. I watched Buttler take the concussion test. Follow the finger. Touch the nose. Walk in a straight line.
He passed, but his eyes were glassy. He put on a new helmet, his hands shaking slightly as he did the strap.
The game restarted. But the batsman who stood there wasn't Jos Buttler anymore. He was a walking wicket.
Ball 4:
Ball 4. Buttler took his guard. He was standing deeper in the crease now, retreating towards the stumps, terrified of the pace, terrified of the short ball. His weight was entirely on the back foot.
Perfect.
I ran in. I channeled every ounce of strength from my legs, my core, my shoulder. I groaned as I released the ball.
151.7 kmph.
It was the perfect yorker. The 'Sandshoe Crusher'. Buttler was expecting the bouncer again. His body shape was all wrong. He saw the ball full too late. He tried to bring his bat down, desperation in his eyes.
He was too late.
The ball bypassed the bat. It bypassed the pad. It crashed into the base of the middle stump with the force of a freight train.
CRUNCH.
It wasn't just the hollow sound of timber falling. It was the sound of destruction. The sheer kinetic energy of the ball was too much for the wood to handle. The middle stump didn't just cartwheel. It snapped. Clean in half.
The top half of the stump flew towards Rishabh Pant, spinning violently like a broken spear. Pant had to dodge to avoid being hit. The bottom half remained jagged in the ground, vibrating. The LED bails lit up red, flashing like a warning beacon in a disaster zone.
Jos Buttler b Aarav 25England: 198/8
I roared. A primal, guttural roar that ripped from my throat and echoed off the Victorian stands. I punched the air, the veins in my neck straining. Virat Kohli was screaming, running in circles, pointing at the broken stump as if it were a trophy of war.
Sanjay Manjrekar (Comms): "CASTLED! HE HAS SNAPPED IT IN TWO! LOOK AT THAT! The middle stump is broken! That is the power of Aarav Pathak! 151.7 kmph! Buttler is gone! The resistance is broken! England is 8 down! This is destruction!"
Sunil Gavaskar (Comms): "That is a collector's item! You don't see that often in modern cricket with these heavy, composite stumps. He has absolutely shattered it! The Bullet Train has derailed the English hopes and left wreckage on the tracks!"
Ball 5:
The crowd was shell-shocked. The groundsman ran out with a replacement stump, hammering it into the ground. The delay only added to the tension.
Mark Wood walked out to bat.
Mark Wood. The fastest bowler in England. The man who bowled bouncers at Shami. The man who hit Axar. The man who laughed when our players were in pain.
I walked past him as he marked his guard. I stopped, leaning in close so only he could hear.
"Ready to have the medicine from your own gourd, Mark?" I whispered, my voice cold. "Shoulder or head? You choose. Or maybe the ribs?"
Wood didn't look at me. He looked nervous, swallowing hard. The bully was now the victim.
Ball 5. I didn't bowl the yorker. I banged it in short. Aimed right at the left shoulder. 148 kmph.
Wood knew it was coming. He backed away towards square leg, trying to create room, trying to get away from the line of fire. He put his bat up defensively, like a shield, eyes half-closed, praying more than playing. The ball got big on him. It climbed. It hit the splice of the bat—the handle. It popped up gently. A simple balloon in the air.
KL Rahul at short leg didn't even have to move his feet. He just stood there and cupped his hands as the ball landed softly in his palms.
Mark Wood c Rahul b Aarav 0 (1)England: 198/9
Aarav Pathak is on a Hat-Trick.
The stadium went berserk. The Indian fans were jumping up and down, waving flags. The Barmy Army was silent, resigned to their fate.
I stood there, staring at Wood as he walked off. He didn't look back. The debt was paid.
Ball 6:
One wicket left. One ball left in the over. Hat-trick ball.
And who walked out? James Anderson.
The villain of the piece. The man whose words had started the fire. The man who had mocked Bumrah.
The atmosphere was suffocating. You could hear a pin drop in London.
Virat Kohli ran up to Mohammed Siraj, who was fielding at mid-off. "Slip. Go to slip," Virat ordered, pushing him. "Get into his eyeline. Make him feel it."
Siraj jogged past Anderson to get to the slip cordon. As he passed the English veteran, Siraj leaned in, his face breaking into a wide, dangerous, unhinged grin.
"Ab teri baari hai, Jimmy!" (Now it's your turn, Jimmy!) Siraj shouted in Hindi, pointing his finger at the broken stumps at the other end.
Anderson didn't understand the words, but he understood the tone. He understood the eyes. He marked his guard. He looked terrified. He looked like a man standing on the gallows.
I stood at the top of my mark. This was it. Lord's. Day 5. Hat-trick ball to win the Test match. The moment legends are made of.
Nasser Hussain (Comms): "You couldn't write a better script if you tried. Jimmy Anderson facing the hat-trick ball to save the Test match. Aarav Pathak, the young superstar, against the old warhorse. The noise is deafening. The tension is unbearable."
Alastair Cook (Comms): "Jimmy just needs to get bat on ball. Just survive one ball. Block it, leave it, anything. But against this pace... 150 plus... it's a big ask for a number 11 whose feet are stuck in cement."
I took a deep breath. The fatigue was gone. The pain in my back was gone. There was only the target. Base of off stump. Fast and straight. Do not miss.
I began the run-up. The crowd roared with every step, a crescendo of noise rising to meet me. Running in...Gathering...Release.
152.3 kmph.
It was a rocket. A left-arm thunderbolt that pitched full on middle and straightened just a fraction. Anderson tried to bring his bat down. He moved his front foot, trying to defend. But he was moving in slow motion compared to the ball.
The ball passed the outside edge of his bat before he had even completed the backlift.
CLACK.
The death rattle.
The off-stump cartwheeled out of the ground, tumbling end over end towards the wicketkeeper like a gymnast.
BOWLED HIM!
James Anderson b Aarav 0 (1)England All Out: 198
HAT-TRICK!INDIA WINS!
For a split second, time froze. The stump flying in the air. The bails falling. Anderson looking back in despair.
Then, absolute chaos ensued.
I turned and roared, arms outstretched like a gladiator who had just slain the beast.
But before I could run, Mohammed Siraj came sprinting from the slip cordon. He didn't run to me. In the madness, he grabbed the stump that had just been knocked out, held it like a sword, and sprinted towards the boundary line, screaming at the top of his lungs, running aimlessly in pure euphoria, lost in the moment.
Virat Kohli was running in the opposite direction, punching the air violently, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated aggression, screaming "YES! YES! YES!"
I stood in the middle of the pitch, adrenaline surging through me. Rishabh Pant came running up to hug me. I high-fived him so hard I thought I broke his hand again. He looked terrified for a second, thinking I was going to tackle him, but I just grabbed his head and ruffled his hair violently, screaming into his helmet.
Then the whole team collapsed on top of me. Rohit, Rahane, Bumrah, Shami. A pile of blue bodies in the middle of the Home of Cricket. We were a tangle of limbs and joy.
Sanjay Manjrekar (Comms): "HISTORY! HISTORY AT LORD'S! AARAV PATHAK HAS DONE IT! A HAT-TRICK TO WIN THE TEST MATCH! He has cleaned up England in just one over! Anderson is gone! England is buried! Look at these scenes! This is one of the greatest Indian victories of all time! From the depths of despair to the peak of glory!"
Sunil Gavaskar (Comms): "UNBELIEVABLE! ABSOLUTELY UNBELIEVABLE! Five wickets in the innings! And look at the figures! 5 wickets for 0 runs! He hasn't conceded a single run! This has never happened in the history of the game! A fifer without conceding a run! The Prince has become the King of Lord's today!"
Nasser Hussain (Comms): "I have no words. That was a spell of bowling from another planet. 152 kmph on the final ball of the day. England has been blown away. They poked the Lion, and the Lion has mauled them. A hat-trick to finish it. You have to stand up and applaud that. That is greatness."
I emerged from the bottom of the pile, gasping for air, my hair disheveled, my jersey stained with grass and dirt.
I looked at the scoreboard. India won by 101 runs.
I looked at the Barmy Army stand. They were standing. They were applauding. The respect was earned. I looked at the balcony where the support staff was celebrating, Ravi Shastri raising a glass.
Then I looked at the broken stump lying on the ground, the one I had snapped in half.
I walked over, picked up the jagged piece of timber, and held it up to the sky.
The fortress was breached. And we didn't just breach it; we burned it down.
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