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The night was still burning when Sekhmet came down from the high tower in the middle of the city.
The cold wind disappeared step by step as he descended, but the smell of smoke stayed with him. Fire had already entered the city's skin. It was in the air now, mixed with oil, damp stone, sweat, blood, and the fear of people who had finally understood that Iron House was not being pressured tonight.
It was being erased.
Vera and Vela followed him in silence. Neither of them asked where he was going next. They already knew. The city fires had become too many and too well placed for guesswork. The work below was ending. The counting would begin now. The prisoners would be gathered. The dead would be sorted. The useful things would be taken. After destruction came arrangement. That was always the part fools forgot.
