The clouds were thick.
They looked like a soft blanket of cotton.
Ola rubbed his aching temples.
[Twelve.]
Stuka's voice rang out in his mind, carrying an insufferably smug eagerness for more.
[These nobles build their houses like women's jewelry boxes. One touch and they fall apart.]
Below them, an exquisite little castle was smoking.
But this was not the kind of devastation that left nothing alive, as before. It was a more insidious strategy-the castle's main building, which usually housed its master's private treasury and bedroom, had now half collapsed.
Not a single roof tile had fallen in the Artisans' District or the commoners' quarter.
Perhaps that was why the firefighting effort below had an oddly unhurried air.
"Quick! Put out the fire! That's my lord's collection room!" The steward in a silk formal suit stood somewhere safe, his face slick with anxious sweat and his voice cracking from shouting, yet he refused to move a single step closer.
The servants and guards heard him, and they were indeed moving, but their movements looked sluggish no matter how one viewed them.
Since the fire could not reach the servants' shared sleeping quarters, fighting it naturally called for a steady, measured approach.
The water carriers lined up in perfect order, passing buckets along methodically. Nobody cut in line or ran. While waiting for their next bucket, two grooms even leaned together for a quiet chat.
It was the lord's money burning, not their homes. Why risk their lives over a fire they were never going to put out?
[Pull back.]
Ola looked down at the unhurried crowd and gave a soft snort. The Great Skua wheeled nimbly through the air and slipped into the clouds.
"So this is what Veylin meant by 'attacking morale'?"
For the past three days, they