Fray soared through the storm-darkened sky, his wings slicing through the cold wind with a whoosh. Below, the battlefield stretched in chaos—wounded warriors staggered through blood and mud, their weary eyes drawn upward to the approaching shadow.
Their gazes followed him like prayers chasing salvation.
Descending, Fray's dark wings folded inward, and he landed with quiet precision on the cracked stone near the old, weather-worn bridge. His boots hit the ground with a solid thud, a sound that made the nearby warriors straighten unconsciously. Behind him, his five companions landed one by one, the rustle of their wings blending into the wind.
Before them stood six figures—the Guardians, they stepped forward in unison, the soft clink of armor echoing with each stride.
Elisa moved in behind Fray, her eyes drawn to one figure in particular—Aslin. She walked calmly at Luke's side, her gaze distant and unreadable. Something about those eyes stirred old memories.
