Another beast leapt.
Too slow.
Ashwing met it midair, jaws catching the thing's neck with a snap that echoed like a judge's gavel.
The little dragon rolled with the body, bounced once, then crouched again, smoke trailing from his nostrils like he'd been born to guard this moment.
Lindarion stepped forward again.
The mage tilted his head.
Runes along the staff flared a deep crimson, panicked now. Not rhythmic. Not steady. Like it was trying to reconfigure for a threat it didn't understand.
Lira moved.
Only a few steps. Just enough to keep herself in range.
Ren, still bleeding, barked a laugh. "You were holding out on us!"
"I'm eleven," Lindarion said.
"You're an eleven-year-old problem."
"Better than being a corpse."
The Divine energy curled tighter around his arms now, lacing up his sleeves in threads of white fire.
It didn't burn.
But it hummed.
Like it wanted an audience.
The mage shifted.
Not back. Not forward. Just centered himself.
He raised both arms.
