The battle had become a living, monstrous, panting organism. It no longer breathed through the lungs of one man, but through the hundreds of chests swelling with terror, rage, or courage. It was a three-headed beast, its every movement shaking the ground.
On one side, there was Maggie, the furious heart. She was a cyclone of metal and screams, a point of rupture in the enemy line. Her halberd carved scarlet furrows through the ranks of puppets, drawing the Mask's attention to her like lightning draws thunder. She was the incarnation of providential chaos, a force so unpredictable it shattered the adversary's schemes, but at the cost of a terrible fragility: she could not last. Each charge exhausted her a little more, and the tide she pushed back threatened at any moment to crash down and engulf her.
