As the solemn words fell, Lyra suddenly felt the moonlight above her head turn searing hot. A scalding, stabbing burn landed on her cheeks, as if rows upon rows of fine cotton needles were pricking her skin without end.
Even through the sacred radiance and the heavy armor forged from the [Sword of Light], the pain was still unmistakable. Worse, this wasn't even the spell's true power. It was only the opening act, with Moserria simply gathering clusters of light-element particles in the air. Nothing more.
Realizing the incoming magic was very likely something even the holy light armor covering her body couldn't block, Lyra's gaze beneath the helmet grew grave and resolute. The longsword in her hand churned the tide of light, sketching a thin, gauzy curtain of radiance around her.
