At the middle lines of the charge, General Lovainne and his newly formed black powder task force surged forward through the blazing inferno.
The flames burned hotter than usual, fueled by volatile fleureux compounds, deadly concoctions engineered for maximum destruction.
But Lovainne's men were no strangers to such hellfire. They had endured compulsory training in firestorm conditions, their lungs accustomed to the sting of burning chemicals.
Lyra, moving alongside them, seemed unaffected despite her wild, auburn hair trailing behind her. It refused to be burned, refused to be cut, a stubborn mystical trait that had saved her from more than one disaster.
She had loosened her braids before battle in an attempt to be more combat effective.
At this moment, all traces of magic were suppressed. The air, thick with soot and gunpowder, carried only the metallic scent of blood and burning flesh.
