Splinters of wood flew across the shop as a wave of debris blasted through the room. Lancet raised his arm over his face while fragments rattled against him and skittered across the floor.
Opaline cried out somewhere beside him, and before the last piece of wood hit the ground, they heard boots thunder through the opening.
Lancet lowered his arm and peered through the dust.
Masked figures poured through the gap. Six, then eight, then more. Dark cloth covered their faces. Their armor was made of leather and chain and plate, scavenged from a dozen sources. Some held blades while others carried purple-glowing weapons.
They spread quickly, cutting off the exits while their leader—a vicious looking woman—stepped through the wreckage without so much as glancing at the destruction around her.
Lancet's Grace flooded his channels. Beside him, Spectra's aura turned defensive, preparing for any attack and making the entire room drop cold.
