The sky boiled.
The sky screamed.
And then it split open.
Bright didn't see the individual crawlers anymore—only the sheer mass of bone and malice plunging from above like a corrupted avalanche. Baggen's hammer cracked another skull, Estovia's fire spiraled into blinding arcs, and Bright himself carved through the chaos with an efficiency that bordered on instinct. But even he—especially he—could feel it.
They were losing.
Not later.
Not eventually.
Now.
The swarm was too large.
Too synchronized.
Too hungry.
And somewhere beneath the thunder of wings and bone, Bright felt something colder than fear:
The certainty that someone out there—some surviving fledgling—would never understand why their protectors never came back.
He swung again, blade cracking through bone, breath ragged as the swarm closed tighter.
But while Bright fought for survival…
Somewhere far behind the battle line—
A different struggle unfolded.
Silas moved like a whisper between heartbeats.
