In the days that followed, Nocture transformed into a gigantic beehive that never slept. The sound of dwarven hammers no longer echoed only in the mornings but rang continuously day and night, mingling with the roars of lycanthropes drilling battle formations, the clinking of crystal chains being installed on the walls, and gusts of wind carrying the scent of hot iron and wet earth from newly dug pit traps. The city's mist was no longer gentle; now it hung thick and heavy, as though absorbing the spreading energy of anxiety among the citizens. Children no longer played freely in the black rose gardens they were being taught how to hide in the newly excavated underground tunnels. Even the normally calm zombie tailors were now busily sewing mythril-lined combat robes for every race living in the city.
