Last Dance

Lyra lay still inside the egg, and she was carried into a bleak, windowless room that seemed more like a tomb than a prison.

The moment the guards left, the assault began.

First, the scorching heat rolled in, waves of fire licking the metal shell.

Then came the violent crackle of lightning, zapping the surface, followed by the deafening roar of the warship's cannons.

But the egg? It stood firm, shrugging off each brutal attack like it was nothing.

Around Lyra, the annoying hum of cutting machines filled the air, their sharp teeth gnawing at the steel. But even those ferocious blades couldn't pierce through. They were loud, obnoxious, but completely useless.

"No point, sir."

The man gripping the cutter looked up at Blackheart, fear oozing from every pore as he trembled under his leader's gaze.

Blackheart didn't even hesitate. With a savage swing of his clawed hand, the man's head was gone—clean off.