Lyanna's screams still rang in the air. Her blood-stained, ice-covered body writhed weakly on the ground, half-conscious, half-dead. I stood atop the rubble, my dark wings spread, Noa Genesis' gauntlet pulsing softly. Malrik dragged the green-haired paladin's body to the side of the battlefield.
"What a sight," I whispered, gazing up at the crimson sky. "A Templar of the Sacred Dawn broken before my forces, and the world will soon understand that no light lasts forever."
Suddenly, the air around me shook. The wind carried the scent of metal, a holy aura that prickled my skin. I turned.
Three figures appeared at the edge of the battlefield. Their auras were different from ordinary paladins—these were no pawns, no church dogs.
These were heroes.
The first figure stepped forward, his golden hair flowing. I recognized the face even after so long. It was Elrodan Lunethiel—the Bow Hero. His eyes narrowed with hatred, his right arm severed, and his left nearly useless.
