The night air in Gravestone was thick, carrying the stench of rust, unwashed bodies, and dried blood.
Perched on the high branch of a dead oak tree overlooking the valley, three figures looked down at the sprawling complex below.
The Slaver Fortress.
It wasn't a castle in the traditional sense. It was a converted prison mine, surrounded by thirty-foot walls made of black iron and reinforced stone.
Watchtowers armed with mana cannons dotted the perimeter, and the hum of a detection barrier buzzed faintly in the air.
"There…" Lyra's voice trembled, not with fear, but with a cold, simmering rage.
She lowered her mana-enhanced binoculars, her knuckles white as she gripped her bow.
"In the central yard. That's… that's my vice-captain. And the others."
Damien followed her gaze.
In the centre of the fortress, under the harsh light of magical floodlamps, a gruesome scene was playing out. About fifty slaves, Elves, Beast-men, and Humans, were chained together in a line.
