Clouds gathered over the capital city of Drakensmar, blotting out the sun and washing the battlefield in grey.
The heavy, ashen atmosphere only amplified the cacophony of gunfire that echoed through the devastated streets.
Lugh crouched behind the crumbling remains of a demolished wall, his breathing measured as he surveyed the battlefield.
His puppet lay positioned on the far side of the formation, granting him a view of both the left and right flanks.
In the center, Lyra held her ground, her usually wild, spellwoven hair was restrained. She couldn't afford to use her magic openly, not with so many witnesses around.
Their advance had come to a grinding halt. A hundred meters ahead, three armored vehicles and a full platoon of Heieg soldiers blocked their path.
The heavy machines were lethal against infantry, and while Lugh could likely destroy them all, doing so would drain his magic reserves entirely, leaving him immobile and vulnerable.
Lyra, on the other hand…
