Suffocation

The night of the Iron Islands was steeped in warfire and despair, so heavy it was suffocating.

Baron Werner stood alone atop the temporary command platform erected in the harbor district, like a stone carving, facing the boundless black sea to the south and gazing for a long, long time.

The sea wind carried the thick stench of gunsmoke, blood, and saltwater, stirring his bloodstained cloak, yet it could not blow away the anxiety and expectation congealed between his brows.

His gaze seemed as if it would pierce through the heavy curtain of night and see that promised fleet, the one bearing their final hope—the Carnford Fleet.

From the direction of the Shantytown Area, the sounds of killing and explosions came denser than by day, and closer, like drumbeats urging them to their deaths, pounding on the hearts of everyone in the harbor.

Werner knew better than anyone that Klein and the warriors under his command, along with those Refugees driven mad by the "three heads," had already shed their last drop of blood. The fall of the Shantytown Area would be tonight!

Perhaps in the next hour, perhaps in the next minute, the Sauron Wolf-Head Flag would appear at the end of the last street leading to the harbor.

They could not wait any longer! There was no time left to wait!

Within the harbor district was a scene of strange and frantic busyness, like the eve of doomsday.

Beneath the wavering torchlight, the roughly five hundred most loyal and best-equipped soldiers Werner could still gather were relying on the mountains of cargo crates piled across the docks, damaged ship keels, and sandbags to desperately reinforce the final ring-shaped defense line.

This was the last barrier leading to the sea. Once it was breached, everyone would be buried here.