Deborah's POV
My energy waned with each passing second, the immense effort of sustaining Sanctifolium's repairs taking a toll on me.
It was as though the weight of the entire city rested on my shoulders, each strike pushing me closer to the edge of collapse.
And still, the Sky Cities forces pressed on, relentless and unyielding.
The ground shook with the force of their attacks, and the sound of explosions filled the air, each one a reminder of the impending doom that loomed over us.
But I couldn't falter. I would not let Tirfothuinn fall—not while I still had breath in my body.
As I steadied myself for another surge of energy, drawing on every last reserve, I felt the presence of Matthew beside me, his eyes fierce and resolute. He had returned, bloodied but unbroken, his determination unwavering.
Together, we would stand firm, united against the storm threatening to consume everything we held dear.
No matter the cost, Tirfothuinn would endure.
The Sky Cities' aircraft hovered above Tirfothuinn like a massive iron beast, casting a chilling shadow over the beach, as though ready to devour everything below, making both earth and sea tremble.
I stood on the edge of Sanctifolium, watching the scene unfold with a rising sense of helplessness and fury, as if an invisible weight pressed down on my chest, making it hard to breathe.
This beach should have been peaceful, bathed in the soft light of dawn, with silver waves reflecting a gentle glow, and a faint, salty ocean scent drifting through the air. But now, that serene landscape had been shattered by the sound of explosions and the chaotic blaze of gunfire.
Matthew led his wolves into battle against the invaders on the front line, while Mike remained in his wolf form beside me, his gaze sharp and unwavering, filled with loyalty and a fierce readiness to protect.
As the dawn's first light spread across the horizon, casting a veil of fragile beauty over the ocean, that beauty was quickly marred by flames and thick smoke. Waves, thrown into turmoil by the shockwaves of nearby explosions, crashed against the beach, mixing the air with the acrid stench of gunpowder and blood. The sand was scarred with darkened craters from the bombing, and it seemed as if the very earth was groaning under the weight of the assault.
Just as the attack began to subside, a smaller aircraft appeared in the distance, gliding smoothly across the sky before it paused briefly over the beach at Tirfothuinn, then descended with precision.
The shape of this craft stood out sharply amid the chaos, different from the hulking war machines surrounding it. Sleek and streamlined, it radiated precision and power in every carefully calculated line.
Its metallic surface gleamed in the dawn light, polished to a mirror-like shine, with a silver alloy shell that gleamed with a cold, formidable beauty. There were no unnecessary details on its surface, only a few deep grooves cut like razor-sharp lines across the body, revealing meticulous craftsmanship and an elegant design.
The wings, compact and sturdy, folded neatly against the sides of the craft, forming a tightly sealed structure like a beast ready to spring into action. At the front, a transparent observation deck revealed a glimpse of the complex interior—panels of buttons and screens flickered with rapidly shifting numbers and symbols, displaying streams of complex data. The engine emitted a low, ominous hum that, even as it softened, conveyed an unyielding force, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. The metal landing supports anchored firmly in the sand, trembling slightly as though ready for new commands at any moment. Despite its compact size, the craft emanated an undeniable authority, a symbol of control and dominance.
As the cabin door slid open, a blinding white light flooded out, piercing through the dawn, illuminating the entire beach like a harsh noonday sun.
One by one, shadows emerged from the interior, their figures sharp and precise. The thick smoke and dust covering the beach parted before the white light, filling the air with a chilling sense of foreboding.
Then their faces came into view—a line of soldiers in identical uniforms, their faces set in a cold, stoic expression, eyes as sharp as ice.
Their uniforms were a sleek, deep gray, the fabric thick and durable, faintly metallic as if designed to withstand any form of assault. They held streamlined high-tech weapons, their surfaces gleaming with a digital display showing precise weapon status, a testament to the cutting-edge technology in their arsenal. Their expressions were statuesque, eyes hawk-like and unflinching as they surveyed the scene, ready to detect the slightest movement hidden beneath the sand.
These soldiers moved with calculated steps, side by side, forming an impenetrable wall of steel. They lined up in two ranks, staring down at the beach with indifferent gazes, awaiting orders. Their silent discipline carried an intense gravity, a quiet expectation of the arrival of someone with an even greater authority.
Then, a figure appeared at the entrance of the craft.
In contrast to the regimented soldiers, this man seemed like a cold, dark moon, clad not in a military uniform but in a long, flowing black cloak. The fabric rippled slightly in the breeze, exuding an air of mystery and power.
He moved slowly, every step deliberate and powerful, his presence quiet but imposing, as if every movement was carefully calculated, radiating a weighty dignity.
The cloak itself was smooth and soft, flowing like water to the ground, with a subtle gleam in the dim light, dark patterns woven into the fabric, barely visible, like symbols of an ancient and forbidden power.
These patterns seemed to shift with the light, revealing symbols that hinted at some hidden strength, emanating a presence both intimidating and awe-inspiring.
His face was hidden within the shadow of his hood, only a pale jawline and a faintly smirking mouth visible.
The hint of a smile carried a detached scorn, as if everything lay within his control, each element of this world just a plaything to him.
That smile was both ruthless and indifferent, suggesting that nothing deserved his genuine attention. His cold and detached air sliced through the atmosphere like a blade, sending a chill down the spine of everyone present on the beach.
Even without seeing his eyes, his intimidating aura was undeniable.
He stood at the cabin door, surveying the chaotic beach and the tense crowd with a detached gaze, as though every soul present was under his thumb. His very presence seemed to cast a dark, oppressive shadow over the beach, causing even the werewolves around me to instinctively shrink back in a rare moment of trepidation.
Excluding the priests of the Lee Family and the wizards of the Blackwood Family, this man might very well belong to one of the other powerful families—Thorne, Vandran, or Edwards?
Behind him, his guards snapped to attention, gripping their weapons with renewed focus as if obeying an unspoken command. He raised his hand with calm authority, a simple gesture that made each of his guards stand taller, eyes gleaming with a combination of respect and fear, as though awaiting an order that would seal the fate of everyone here.
Each of his subtle movements conveyed absolute authority, an inherent command over everything before him, moving the hearts and minds of everyone on the beach without a single word.
At that moment, another familiar figure appeared behind him—Chad Baker. My heart clenched. Could this mysterious man be the power behind Chad, the one who knew the truth behind the massacre of the Lee family?
The sight before me felt like a nightmare closing in, intertwining fury with a paralyzing helplessness. Sanctifolium's energy began to wane around me, and I felt my strength draining, my knees buckling as I collapsed to the ground.
A low growl from Mike broke the silence on the beach, like the drumbeat of battle, drawing everyone's attention. The crowd of soldiers turned to us, their gaze as chilling as the weapons in their hands, like two piercing blades digging into my chest and sending a chill down my spine.
Under their penetrating gaze, the man began walking toward me.
His steps were measured, each one hitting the sand as if it held the weight of the world, his cold aura radiating with an intensity that seemed to stifle the very air around me.
I forced myself to meet his gaze, my heart pounding wildly in my chest, threatening to break free.
His face was hidden in the shadow of his hood, only his chiseled jawline visible, his pale lips curving slightly, as though holding a hint of a smile that was both disdainful and composed, as if no one here deserved his full attention.
For a brief moment, our eyes met, my mind barely registering the shock of recognition.
The man's gaze roamed over my face, seemingly scrutinizing, as if verifying something, his expression as cold as his presence was commanding.
In his dark, abyss-like eyes, there seemed to be a vast, unfathomable mystery, and I realized, almost instinctively, that this man was somehow connected to everything that had happened, to every shadowy plan I'd yet to uncover.
A chill of realization ran down my spine, a faint fear sparking within me as I sensed I was standing at the edge of a terrifying truth. Who was this man before me? Could he be tied to the massacre of the Lee family, or perhaps, was he the true mastermind behind the oppression of the underground cities, the tyrant of the Sky Cities?
His gaze grew more intense, a strange warmth hidden beneath his icy exterior. The faint, enigmatic smile on his lips felt like silent acknowledgment. He studied me with a sense of familiarity, as though he already knew all my secrets, while I was left with nothing but questions.
"Dara? Is it really you?"
Did he mistake me for someone else?