The faint hum of the army aircraft echoed inside the cabin as it soared above the waters of the Zolack Nation. Spectre sat stiffly, nervously tapping the toe of his boot against the cold metal floor. Sweat clung to his palms despite the cabin's cool air.
To his left sat Damon—calm, composed, and unreadable. On his right was Oren of the Feuer Guild, a towering presence with a white scar cutting across his right cheek. His sleeveless attire revealed biceps crisscrossed with old battle scars, each one a chapter of survival. His eyes held the weight of countless wars, sharp and solemn.
Resting between Oren's feet was a massive metal shield, almost as if it weighed a ton. Its surface was worn and dented, a dull red hue burned into its center.
