Sigvard panted heavily, his grip tightening around his black rod as he took in the devastating sight before him. The battlefield was in ruins, and Alzalel still loomed, its golden-orange eyes burning with unrelenting rage.
He stole a glance at his allies—Vidar was on his knees, his face pale from blood loss, his severed arm lying motionless in a pool of crimson blood. Sverve was unconscious on the ground, her body battered and bruised from Alzalel's relentless assault. They were beyond critical condition, and Sigvard knew the truth that clawed at his pride: they could not win this fight.
Gritting his teeth, he made a snap decision.
"We're leaving," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the storm of destruction.
