With a spinning maneuver, they brought down a pack of elite werewolf sentries.
Above them, sand briefly swirled—not from the earth, but summoned by their beast soul phantoms.
They were the storm.
---
From atop a frozen hill laced with defensive wards and wide strategic viewports, Ivana stood with arms crossed, her expression sharp and unreadable.
Beside her, a wide soul-glass panel projected real-time battlefield movements from every front.
She watched General Isolde on the ridges. Enzo on the plains. Selina in the soundfields. Lancelot holding central formation. Even Cale and Riven flickering in and out of enemy ranks.
"They're all holding their own," muttered her aide, Captain Lynna.
"They are," Ivana said softly, "but this is just the beginning."
As if on cue, the sky rumbled.
A wave of cold dread washed over the battlefield—the Progenitor was on the move.
Ivana's eyes narrowed.