Meanwhile, inside one of the tunnels dug by Slark, Draeven shouted hoarsely.
"Elvira! Run!"
He raised his shovel like a halberd, bracing himself in front of her.
Ahead, four knights emerged, their silver armor gleaming in the dim light.
They stood taller than ordinary men but still shorter than a Nephirid, mounted on hybrid beasts that looked like a cross between dragon and horse, their eyes glowing faintly red.
Behind them marched twenty-four soldiers, every one of them a Magus. The oppressive aura they carried was unmistakable, heavy enough to make the air feel thick.
Draeven's jaw tightened. He remembered barely surviving against only a handful of these foes, yet now two dozen blocked the path.
His grip on the shovel trembled until his knuckles turned white, hatred threatening to consume him. But he swallowed it down.
Charging blindly would be pointless. The least he could do was buy Elvira time to escape.
