"Tipping is gravity's work," he said. "I provide the angle."
He tapped three red circles. "These are pressure valves. Smash them and the slave routes choke." His finger slid to a line of black squares. "These are rumor wells. Feed them and panic overflows." Finally, he tapped Ironleaf itself, now ringed by orange. "This is a torch. Let it burn bright enough that every chained heart can see the sparks."
A long breath left Sylvanna, half awe, half reluctance. "It's more than rescue, isn't it? You intend them to suffer first."
The mist cooled as the words fell. Draven rolled the stylus between thumb and knuckle, considering. "Suffering breaks the body," he said. "Hope breaks the chains." He did not soften the statement with apology. War was a kiln; only the clay that survived fire became stone.
A distant crash echoed from Ironleaf—another tower giving way. Sparks fountained up, brief artificial stars against the cloud ceiling. Sylvanna shivered. She did not ask again.
