The remnants of Duke Marveil's forces staggered through the moonlit plains, their armor battered, their spirits bruised. What had once been a proud army of 100,000 now numbered barely half—48,000 survivors, their ranks thinned by Lucius' brutal counter-ambush. The scent of blood and scorched earth clung to them, a bitter reminder of their crushing defeat.
Pietro marched at the forefront, his Celestial Edge still humming faintly in its sheath. His wounds had been mended by a battlemage's swift intervention, but the weight of their losses pressed upon him like a second blade.
Then—a shadow passed over the moon.
Heads snapped upward. Gasps rippled through the ranks as two colossal shapes descended from the night sky, their sleek, wingless frames cutting through the air with eerie silence.
'The Skyward Sentinels.'
The soldiers froze, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten. Some reached for weapons, but Pietro raised a hand.
"Stand down."
