The battlefield shimmered beneath the faint gold haze of Saint Cynthia's barrier. It glowed like dawn over a graveyard—radiant, holy, and heartbreakingly fragile. For a moment, the Crusade stood as one unified force, their courage rekindled under her divine protection. But even that light began to tremble.
Luke could see it. Everyone could.
The dome above them, once solid and bright, now flickered. Tiny fractures ran across its surface like spiderwebs of glass. The mist that once fell steadily and strongly began to wane, thinning into a faint drizzle of light. The hum that filled the air—a soft, melodic vibration—now trembled with strain, each pulse slower than before.
