At Asterin’s approach, the wyverns and riders reeled back, rising high into the air, falling into formation. A hammer about to strike. The Fae knew it. They began throwing up feeble shields, shooting wildly for them, their panic making their aim sloppy. But the wyverns were covered in armor—efficient, beautiful armor. The Thirteen laughed at their enemy as they slammed into its southern flank. Lysandra wished she had strength left to shift—one last time. To join them in that glorious destruction.
