"The fortress was old, Captain. Unstable. It would have come down in another decade. We simply hurried the process along."
Vaelin hummed, not quite satisfied but not quite bothered either.
His gaze drifted to the prisoners—what few there were.
A handful of Bloodbane survivors had been gathered in the courtyard—a pitiful sight, their armor melted to their skin, their faces drenched in sweat and blood, eyes still wide with the horror of what they had witnessed.
Some had collapsed into mindless sobbing, others sat rigid and shaking, trying to maintain a sliver of dignity.
One, a man with grizzled facial features and a dented breastplate, forced himself to his feet, glaring at Vaelin with a defiance that was almost admirable.
"You're wasting your time, Akerian," he spat, his voice hoarse.
"You think taking Blackthorn means you've won? Wait till the emperor hears about this, the imperials will crush you!"
Vaelin's lips curled into an amused smile. "Crush us?"
