The devils expected another headlong rush. They had braced themselves for sheer brawn, for the ice storms of Mia, the divine fury of Nock, the spear-lightning of Seraphine.
They had not expected Valen Drazmir.
The SS-ranker stood a half-step behind the vanguard line, his silver hair unruffled even in the chaos of the battlefield. His voice carried without shouting, every order clipped and precise, and the humans shifted in response with uncanny synchronicity. Kaelion Thorne and Ilyra Voss flanked him, their auras simmering but held in reserve, ensuring no devil commander could slip past their cordon.
"Hold the wings," Valen murmured, his eyes fixed not on the soldiers but on the terrain itself. "They want us spread thin. Keep them hungry. Feed them just enough resistance to draw them closer."
