Marcus blasted a thunderclap from his staff, staggering two flankers, but the tank shrugged it, closing on Nova like a freight train. Too close, Nova thought, his breath rough.
The flag waved behind them, so damn close, but this scrap was turning ugly, numbers even, but their heavies hit harder, and the team's aches from the labyrinth weren't fully gone.
One flanker broke through Trevor's line, lunging for the banner. Col roared, axe burying in the guy's back, but it left Col open, and the wind-caster's gust slammed him into a pillar, Col's bones cracking. Trevor charged to cover, shield up, but a rock spike punched through, dropping him to a knee.
Nova parried another hammer swing, his arms screaming, and risked a glance: the flag was still theirs, but barely. The Britishers were pressing, and it wasn't looking too good.
