The tide of armored rats had finally been quelled.
Their metallic screeches, like the grinding of rusted gears, no longer echoed through the battered streets. The city stood firm, its walls splattered with blood and scorched by battle, yet unbroken. Another calamity had come knocking, and once again, Valthorn endured.
Under Crown Prince Damien Harrier's command, all the rat corpses were gathered beyond the northern gate, forming a grotesque monument of death. The mound, thick with blood, fur, and gleaming black armor, towered so high it could be seen even from the farthest alleys of the inner districts.
To the untrained eye, this might have seemed unnecessary—perhaps even wasteful. Why not burn the bodies where they fell? Why risk gathering them in such numbers? But Damien had his reasons.
Cold. Calculated. Historical.
