The biting wind of the heights of Tenebris howled between the jagged peaks, lifting a fine layer of dust that infiltrated the smallest gaps in the armor. At the head of the Pendragon faction's column, Kris galloped on his reddish steed. His hair, once a flaming red, was now pure white, a sign of his transformation into the "Draconic Lion" that he had undergone under the shock of the loss of his sister Isabella.
His amber gaze, hardened by hatred and mourning, fixed on the horizon where a dark cloud began to mask the purple sky. Hundreds more harpies, attracted by the smell of the blood of their dead kin, dove toward them with shrill cries capable of shattering the eardrum of an ordinary human.
"Lord Kris! They are too numerous!" shouted a student a few meters behind him, his voice barely audible under the din of the membranous wings.
