It'll sustain, beneath skies gone dark with rueful destruction: sun set, doors shattered at their hinges like the cracked shell of an egg, no longer a bulwark against Archadia's wrath. The sound of mechanized gunfire from above is only proof of Imperial support, for the city they lay siege to was wholly unprepared to sustain a breach of swift, merciless efficiency.

His longblade drags viciously through the rib bones and leathers of some miserably ill-prepared soldier, more desperate to stall for time than prepared to endure the endless cruelties of a Judge Magister. Gabranth's helm twists, angling an eyeless stare across his pauldron towards Jone.

"The buildings," he barks, flicking his head towards the outer edges of that merchant quarter they'd brushed along earlier. "Take your vengeance."

The fires already burn, after all: all she need do is direct their flow.

"I shall hold off the rest."