The wind would normally have carried that pleasant tang of sea salt and fish. But today, the air here was as dry as a slab of salted meat left baking in the sun for three days.
Ola lay flat against Stuka's broad back, looking down at the city through the tactical interface of the [Hive Terminal].
Iron Bay Harbor.
The second-largest trading hub in Hector's domain, its throughput surpassed only by Blackstone Harbor, which had already been reduced to ruins.
[Altitude four thousand, wind speed thirty, southerly.]
Ola issued orders over the public channel.
[Maintain silence. Prepare to drop bombs.]
The Bomber Wing glided silently through the clouds, like shadows cast by death.
It was too quiet.
Ola stared at the docks below, still bustling with activity.
There were no alarms, no panicked crowds, and even the signature pale-gold Magic Shield had not been activated.
The whole city was like a woman stripped naked, lying defenseless by the sea.
[Shorty, something's wrong.]
Stuka's voice rang out in his mind, carrying a hint of an animal's instinctive wariness.
[The air down there smells wrong. It reeks. Nothing but rust.]
[Shut up and focus on flying.]
Though Ola snapped back, his grip on the reins tightened instinctively.
After suffering such a crushing defeat at Blackstone Harbor, that lunatic Hector could hardly have failed to learn his lesson.
But there was no turning back now.
The Alchemical Bombs on the racks had already been armed.
"First Squadron, probing bomb run."
Ola gave the order.
"Target: Number Three Cargo Pier."
Twenty Great Skuas banked slightly, and their racks released.
Twenty black iron canisters plummeted with a shrill whistle.
Ola stared fixedly at the falling black specks.
Three thousand meters.
Two thousand meters.
One thousand meters.
Ola watched the ground below, waiting for chaos to