“Stop right there, Lucan!”
Zion’s voice thundered through the fading mist of the battlefield. The rain of blood had ceased, leaving only the hiss of dying flames and the groans of the wounded in the air.
Warlord Lucan turned slowly, removing his black helm. The wound across his chest still dripped with thick, black blood, yet his eyes remained sharp and cold.
“You’ve won the first round, Alpha Zion,” he said flatly, “but don’t fool yourself—this war is far from over.”
Zion stood tall among the surviving Sentinels, silver light still burning faintly in his eyes. His breathing was steady despite the gashes that marked his body.
“You brought the flag of war to my land. I did only what I must—protect Moonstrike and my Luna.”
Lucan gave a low, gravelly laugh, the sound rumbling like somet
