The wind, on a normal day, would carry the pleasant smell of sea salt and fish. But today, the air here was as dry as a piece of salt-cured meat left under the sun for three days.
Ola lay prone on Stuka's broad back, looking down at the city below through the tactical interface of the [Hive-Terminal].
Iron Bay Port.
The second-largest trade hub in Hector's territory, its throughput second only to the now-ruined Black Stone Port.
[Altitude four thousand, wind speed thirty, southerly.]
Ola gave the order over the public channel.
[Maintain silence. Prepare to drop bombs.]
The bomber corps glided silently through the clouds, like shadows cast by death itself.
'Too quiet.'
Ola stared at the docks below, which were still bustling with activity.
No alarms, no panicked crowds, not even the signature pale-gold Magic shield had been raised.
The entire city was like a naked woman lying defenseless by the sea.
'Shorty, something's not right.'
