Student Council War 9

The scent of burning mana and scorched wood had become a constant companion across the shattered battlefield. Wind carried distant echoes of steel, crackling spells, and the cries of warriors on both sides still locked in desperate combat. Above it all, a reddish haze filtered through the branches—residual flame dust from the Phoenix's earlier wrath. Nature itself seemed to be holding its breath.

In the heart of it, Seraphina moved like a blade through water—silent, fluid, and sharp.

Three Galat warriors flanked a wounded Lucan from Crimson Dawn, their axes and runes gleaming in grim coordination. Seraphina didn't hesitate. An arrow soared from her hand before her bow even fully formed, striking one squarely in the chest. Before the others could react, she pivoted, loosing two more—one in the shoulder, the other in the thigh. Non-lethal, but decisive.

Lucan looked up, dazed. "Seraphina?"

She didn't answer. Her gaze swept the clearing.