"Bullseye!"
No triumph in Sylvanna's answering nod, only survival—thin and costly. "Climb," she rasped. "Altitude before the forge settles."
Raëdrithar obeyed, wings hammering the wounded air. Sylvanna's vision narrowed to a tunnel rimmed in blue sparks. The lightning sickness regrouped, sending cold knives under her ribs. She tasted blood where she'd bitten through her lip, but she rode the agony, used it to focus. Below her, scorched masonry and dying phantoms boiled together, swallowed by rising steam.
On the plateau, Vaelira felt the air jar as the mirror exploded—pressure change like a giant exhaling. Her shield arm vibrated under another wraith impact; frost crept down the steel boss where a memory-leeching hand had pressed moments earlier. She slammed forward, locking shields with the trooper to her left. Mud sucked at her boots, trying to drag her down. She refused.
"Push!" Her voice shot down the line, flaring lungs already rubbed raw by smoke. "You hold, or you drown!"
