All the prisoners were carried by Wingroars, their massive bodies cutting through the gray sky like arrows loosed from a bow, their white feathers gleaming against the dark clouds.
The entire sky of Nova was filled with the army of elven warriors, their silver armor shining like a second sun, their weapons raised, their presence so vast and terrible that it seemed as if they were marching to war rather than returning home.
The Wingroars flew in perfect formation, their wings beating in unison, their roars echoing across the mountains, shaking snow from the peaks, sending avalanches crashing down into the valleys below.
They were many miles from their kingdom, following a signal that only they could sense, a beacon that had been placed in Sophia's blood the day she was born, a magical mark that could not be erased, could not be hidden, could not be ignored.
