LYRA
The first hit slammed into us from the left. It wasn't a nudge; it was a full-on collision, the weight of a wolf, easily the size of a pony, throwing itself against the driver's side. The G-Wagon lurched, rocking hard enough to make the whole thing slide. The sound was all wrong, that sickening crunch when metal bends under something that shouldn't have the power to do it. Zeviar’s hands barely twitched on the wheel. He corrected instantly, his jaw tight, his eyes flicking, calculating, the way you do when your brain switches from human to pure survival mode.
Before the first impact had even finished vibrating through the chassis, another slammed into the right side. Then two more at once. And another from dead behind, hard enough to shove us forward in our seats.
"Stay down," Orio
