The smoke from the burning carcass of the Gorgon-Stitch rose in a thick, oily black pillar that leaned across the gray sky like a funeral shroud.
Out on the ash flats, the retreat of the forward Splicer vanguard had turned into a chaotic rout. Thousands of cut hard shell legs, crumpled back shell plates, and charred bone quills littered the frozen mud, marking the five-half-mile hall where the swarm had tried to breach Gate 4.
Commoner salvage teams from the lower foundry guilds were already moving through the trench lines with high-pressure cutters and heavy transport sleds, stripping the silver-steel reinforcement struts and high-grade aether batteries from the disabled siege engines.
Arthur Vance walked down the outer castle wall stairs, his boots coated in gray ash and dried chimera bile. His charcoal coat hung loose around his shoulders, the cold wind whipping his dark hair across his forehead.
Beside him, Toby Mallow was jogging to keep pace. He grabbed an armful of light-projected printouts and electronic tracking data pads.
“Arthur, the casualty numbers from the morning engagement are in,” Toby reported, his voice filled with breathless excitement. “Across the entire Gate Four defensive line... We lost four cadets. Twelve wounded, all with non-life-threatening deep cuts that Doctor Calder already steadied in the triage dugout. The local guildmasters are calling it a miracle! In the history of the outer trench wars, an assault by an armored Class-One Giant statue has never been repelled with less than two hundred casualties!”
