Three more days dragged by, and the atmosphere inside the Iron-Wood Manor warped into something entirely surreal.
The imposing, impenetrable fortress of the Vanguard—a stronghold actively bracing for a cosmic, apocalyptic war against the heavens—currently smelled overwhelmingly of cinnamon, baked apples, and spun sugar.
Roxy's manic domesticity had reached a fever pitch. She was a relentless, vibrating force of unadulterated, aggressive cheerfulness that was actively driving her fiercely protective Warlords to the brink of insanity. She spent hours in the vast kitchens, completely covered in flour, insisting on baking complicated, terrestrial-style pastries that the massive carnivorous beasts of the pack barely knew how to eat.
