The ruins of the Lion King's nation burned hotter with every passing second. The missiles had broken the outer defenses, but the three of them—the siblings and the dragon's lapdog—were the storm tearing through what was left.
Beastkin soldiers kept charging. Wolves snarled through broken helmets, vultures swooped only to be torn from the sky, and boar-men swung axes with blind fury. It didn't matter. Each wave fell faster than the last. Lucy's blade carved infernos across the field, Karl's fists shattered bone and steel in equal measure, and Lucian—Lucian was a phantom, folding space with every step, unraveling lives like they were nothing more than threads cut loose from a loom.
It was working.
