The tide hit and broke.
Lyra's first volley was merciless—three arrows in a fan at kissing distance. The front rank of hatchlings crumpled under the impacts, limbs knotting, bodies flipping. Inigo met the next line with short, economical bursts; the M4 spoke in staccato, each report a clean punch through chitin. Smoke bit his eyes; heat licked his cheek. One hatchling got close enough to smell him—chemical, oil, steel—and he stamped it flat, boot crunching through head plates.
"Right flank!" Lyra warned.
He pivoted, dashed—a blue smear through heat shimmer—and skidded low under a leaping pair, shooting up into their bellies. Black ichor rained. He came up running and slid behind a boulder that was rapidly turning into a boulder-shaped oven.