The air reeked of iron and wet earth as Beta Juls and Gamma Roderick tore into the swarm of rogues, their wolves moving like shadows, all muscle and fury.
Claws raked, fangs snapped, and the night pulsed with the sound of snarls and dy*ng screams. Still, the rogues kept coming, endless and wild, as if summoned by some unseen hand.
Florita stood at the heart of the chaos, her barrier shimmering faintly, pulsing each time a rogue struck against it. Sweat streamed down her face, her lips whispering a chant in an ancient tongue. A faint silver light flickered at her fingertips, but it was dim—far too dim.
"We don't have long," she gasped. "If I lose focus, they'll break through!"
Juls lunged at a rogue, his silver-gray wolf slamming into its side and crushing its ribs with a snap of jaws. Blood stained his muzzle as he lifted his head, growling. "Then hold, Florita! We'll clear you a path."
