The scent grew thicker as I pushed deeper. Weak traces of foxkin, wolfkin, tigerkin, and many more, but most potently—dogkin became evident.
The city might've tried to make them vanish into the background, but their scent told me the truth.
They were here.
Packed together.
Trapped.
Waiting for salvation that may never come.
My steps slowed as the walls closed in. The air grew heavier, more humid, more suffocating. A mass of sorrowful scent lingered like an invisible fog, clinging to my nostrils. It wasn't just sadness but despair.
Then I saw it.
Pens.
Not houses. Not prisoner cells. Pens.
Cages meant for farm animals.
The same ranch-like enclosures I saw in Emberfang, where they kept the elves, humans, and dwarves they ate. Barbed wire surrounded the compounds, wooden walkways ran overhead where lionkin guards patrolled, and food troughs were placed on the dirt floor in insulting likeness to livestock feeding zones.
