The battlefield behind them was still a storm of steel and screams, a maelstrom of light and shadow locked in chaos. The crusade, battered but unyielding, pressed forward under Saint Cynthia's fading protection. Her divine barrier flickered like a dying sun, its shimmering glow still strong enough to shield those within but weakening with every heartbeat. The air reeked of blood, ash, and burning flesh—the smell of faith and fury intertwined.
And through it all, a streak of motion broke from the lines. Luke and Ilyrana, astride the mighty Vartha, darted through the last veil of smoke like a bolt of living lightning. The tiger's paws barely touched the ground, her body weaving and leaping through corpses and craters as if guided by some primal instinct for survival. Luke could feel her heart pounding beneath him, raw and powerful, every thud echoing against his ribs.
