The mage atop the wyvern, a young man with fiery red hair and a matching cloak, was the first to speak. "Master Gerhardt, we are ready. We've trained for this. We—"
"Silence, boy!" Gerhardt snapped, his tone harsh and commanding. The young mage flinched, his wyvern letting out a low growl.
"Do not presume to tell me what you are ready for. You have no idea what awaits you beyond that treeline."
He gestured toward the dark forest ahead, where shadows danced ominously.
The crystalline stag rider, a woman with sharp features and silver hair, spoke up next. "We've studied the spells, Master Gerhardt. We've practiced the rituals. We—"
"Practice means nothing when faced with the chaos of battle!" Gerhardt interrupted again, his voice cutting through her words like a blade.
"A thousand incantations will not save you if your hands tremble. A single misstep, a single moment of hesitation, and you will fall. And let me be clear: there will be no time to mourn you."
