It roared—an awful sound of pain and rage, its divine wing spasming, its warped one bursting with ichor that boiled away in the light.
For the first time since it appeared, the corrupted angel looked shaken, its milky blue eye flickering, its certainty faltering.
The women pressed forward, step by step, forcing it toward the edge of the holy light, dragging it back each time it tried to retreat into the mist, battering it with fang, claw, thorn, and flame.
"You won't touch him," Virelya hissed, her six heads speaking in unison, their golden eyes blazing.
"You won't win," Nyxsha growled, her golden eyes burning with primal fury, her massive form unyielding despite her wounds.
Sylvara's voice was cold, almost pitying, her amber eyes steady. "And you will fall," she said, her thorned spear twisting deeper, crimson sap mixing with the angel's ichor.
