Lyra was still standing on my back, still screaming like a damn hero with her sigils gleaming as they deflected round after round of enchanted artillery aimed at me. Her shield flickered, showing signs of wear and tear violently with every impact. The [Sacrifice of the Willing] spell wasn't just working: it had already saved my life a hundred times over. But I could feel it in her breath, in the way her body swayed with each hit.
She was fading.
Sooner or later—sooner—she was going to collapse.
What then?
Panic.
Cold and venomous panic began assaulting my mind.
My Magic stat wasn't high enough to tear through these monsters in armor fast enough. Not at this scale. Furthermore, the moment I slowed down, I'd get swarmed, and worse, Lyra would die for it.
I looked down.
More screams.
The dogkin were collapsing.
The wolfkin were falling.
They were being massacred.
I couldn't save them.
I couldn't save anyone.
Then…
I made the mistake of looking back.
Toward the rear.
