Before the Iron Islands' fleet and Edwin Ramirez's newly-surrendered pirate-ships fully approached Howl Mountain Island's coastline, strange sounds pierced wave-noise, drilling into every Iron folk's ear.
Not ordinary wave-crash. Not seabird-cries. Rather a low, continuous wailing—not propagating through air but ascending from ocean-depths along ship-keels, carrying ancient sorrow like a deep-abyss imprisoned-beast's endless lamentation.
Everyone's gaze involuntarily fixed upon that lofty solitary peak dominating the island's center—"Throat Peak."
It resembled earth's sword thrust skyward, cliff-face nearly vertical. Only on the northeastern side appeared a faint crease called "Snake Path," winding around mountainside, reportedly so narrow only half a foot could pass.
Midway up, a colossal natural cave gaped open—"Throat Cavern."
Approximately thirty feet high, twenty feet wide, its contours oddly resembled an invisible beast's gaping throat facing endless ocean, radiating ominous aura. Sea-wind funneling through, passing countless complex branching tunnels—some leading to subterranean rivers, others reaching the mountain-summit's long-dormant volcanic crater—produced this island-wide, unsettling strange wailing.
Locals reverentially called it "Earth's Throat," legend claiming it devoured not merely sound but every daring intruder's life. This wailing seemed the island itself's warning toward unwanted guests.
Dark-green waves carrying dull roars repeatedly shattered against jagged reef-clusters, spraying ghostly foam. A completely jet-black mountain suddenly rose from turbid sea-surface, its peak covered extensive mottled white—seemingly snow from distance, revealed upon approach as thousand-year-old sea-salt-congealed thick frost-coat.
This was Howl Mountain Island's fearsome natural bulwark.
Pirates constructed their fortress—Throat Citadel—atop a massive natural crevasse-edge. This "Throat Crevasse's" both sides featured near-vertical dark cliff-walls, faintly showing artificially-carved narrow steps like fragile threads clinging to a giant's throat.
The sole path to the summit: the "Snake Path," a steep narrow passage winding along crevasse-edge, at its narrowest accommodating merely two pressed together—one side icy cliff-wall, the other cloud-wrapped fathomless abyss.
Mid-crevasse, terrain suddenly descended forming deep still-water-pools. More chilling: these harbored ten-thousand creatures called "throat-leeches."
Tall wooden palisades ringed pool-edges, coated sticky honey. Imagine breached defense: palisades toppling, starved throat-leeches flowing like black tide, devouring invaders.
This death-domain therefore named—Leech Pool.
These were Howl Mountain's unique terrors, resembling translucent black silk-ribbons, nearly indistinguishable from shadows when swimming. Once contacting living skin, they'd instantly bore like organic drills deep into flesh.
Worse than blood-feeding: their mouth-parts secreted special neuro-toxins. Poisoned victims wouldn't die immediately, rather plunge into uncontrollable violent convulsions, every muscle seemingly dancing independently, until exhaustion-death.
Local fishermen claimed: "Rather be shark-eaten than throat-leech-touched."
Ten-thousand such death-ribbons slowly wriggled in deep pools, awaiting feeding-opportunity.
Atop Snake-Path, Throat Citadel's outline faintly materialized through thin clouds.
Pirates stood ready. Thick rolling-logs and jagged boulders stacked at critical positions. Barrels of thick fuel neatly arranged, black liquid slightly sloshing in rough barrels, releasing acrid odor.
They leaned against cold walls, faces bearing near-cruel leisure, mockingly gazing downward at fleet-like ants. Before this fortress sheltered by earth's might, all attacks appeared futilely laughable.
"Let them try!" one pirate spat, slapping log requiring two-man embraces beside him, roaring laughter: "See if their heads are harder than my wood!"
Arrogant laughter echoed cliff-walls. They firmly believed this "one man guards, ten-thousand cannot pass" natural barrier sufficed terrifying any invader, burying them here.
Euron stood beneath Throat Citadel, regarding the black castle above, speaking flatly: "Rather reminds me of the Eyrie," his tone relaxed, seemingly appreciating landscape. "Directly attacking, gnawing this bone, proves genuinely difficult."
Surrounding lords lacked his leisure.
Lord Barron furrowed brow like knots. Lord Stonehelm anxiously caressed axe-haft. Several generals famed for ferocity studied the lethal "Snake Path" and barely-visible Leech Pool, their expressions gravely serious. They whispered exchanged opinions, all shaking heads—direct assault meant suicide, fleets couldn't approach steep cliffs.
Only sea-wind howled in silence.
All familiar, brutal tactics seemed useless before this fortress utilizing nature's powers.
Euron's gaze swept distant steep Throat Peak, seemingly piercing cliff-walls seeing the proud citadel. He suddenly laughed softly, posing question: "Know how that supposedly-impregnable Eyrie ultimately fell?"
Before anyone pondered, he self-answered: "Dragons!"
Euron smiled: "Fortified castles, tall walls block human armies, yet cannot block judgment from heaven."
As if answering, distant dragon-song echoed through sky.
The thousand-year dragon Halsien's enormous silhouette broke clouds, slowly descending beside Euron, raising dust. Its massive form carefully secured dozens ceramic jars, dark-green thick liquid vaguely visible—wildfire capable devouring everything.
"I lack giant-dragons," Euron caressed Halsien's warm neck-scales, "but I possess it."
He vaulted onto Halsien's back, reins gathering in fingers, patting those jars laughing: "Halsien won't breathe dragon-flame, but I've brought fury exceeding dragon-fire."
Beneath everyone's shock, the thousand-year dragon spread sky-blocking wings.
Euron's final voice descended from above, clear as stone-engraved:
"Guard all exits, especially those leading underground rivers—"
"I'll let this fortress they believe 'never falls' personally experience heaven's gift."
Thousand-year dragon Halsien's massive wings obscured Throat Citadel's sky. Euron stood upon dragon-back like ancient god, coldly overlooking the fortress below believing itself safe.
One, two, three... stone-jars loaded with dark-green wildfire descended with precision. They crashed upon rock and structure, instantly erupting—"Boom!!!"
First ear-splitting explosions, then dark-green flames violently erupted like living things, spreading wildly. Not ordinary fire but something more terrible—thick as oil, igniting upon contact, even burning continuously attached to stone.
Wildfire razes the citadel!
Throat Citadel instantly transformed into green inferno.
Countless pirates ignited instantly, becoming piercing-shrieking torches. They futilely ran, rolled, unable escaping those flame-parasites, ultimately plummeting like dumplings from steep cliffs and pathways, tracing desperate arcs through night-sky.
Screams, collapses, flame-explosions interwove hell's symphony.
This terrible fire burned from noon through midnight, sky-reaching flames dying half-sky strange dark-green. Across every Serpent Isles corner, upward-gazing revealed Howl Mountain's beacon-fire symbolizing destruction and conquest.
Before dawn's first light, flames finally dimmed.
The once-steep Throat Citadel vanished—wildfire's terrible temperature softened, warped stone-built fortress like melting wax, leaving only smoking twisted charred-black ruins.