After the punishment was over, silence blanketed Marrenthold like a funeral mist.
Every single soldier who had been in the barracks was now out in full armor—shined, straightened, perfect. Not a speck of dirt dared cling to them. Their boots were polished, belts tightened, weapons aligned with military precision.
They stood in perfect formation at the town square—rows and rows of beastkin troops, not one twitching, not one blinking. Faces forward. Eyes locked.
Those still on duty—guards on the walls, archers in the towers, scouts near the perimeter—continued their assignments in absolute silence. No whispers. No laughter. Not even glances toward the town center.
They were working. Or at least pretending to work harder than they ever had in their lives.
Because no one wanted to be next.
At the very front of the square stood Captain Juraban.
Posture straight.
Face neutral.
Hair still a bit unkempt, but soaked in cold sweat.
