High above the Crimson Sea, the cold wind whipped violently against the armored feathers of the Griffin Vanguard.
Revista soared at the very front of the formation, his massive wings of pitch-black Abyssal fire leaving a trail of scorching heat in the freezing air. Below him, the ocean was illuminated by the shimmering golden shields of the Imperial Armada. The Eastern mages had successfully blocked the coastal laser fire, and they were already preparing a counter-attack, completely unaware of the shadow looming miles above their masts.
In traditional naval warfare, ships fought ships. The concept of an organized, high-altitude bombing run was completely alien to them.
Revista raised his hand, his crimson eyes locking onto the dense cluster of massive galleons below.
"Drop it," Revista's deep voice carried effortlessly across the roaring wind, commanding the Vanguard riders.
