The night fog hadn't fully lifted when Kael Lenoch stood in the middle of a battlefield still warm with death. The damp, sticky air of the southeastern plains carried the sharp tang of iron, blood mixed with wet earth. Snow piled on his shoulders, but it couldn't cool the steam rising from skin still burning hot after the night's carnage.
Around him, bodies sprawled in twisted positions: some with eyes frozen wide, others half-buried in crimson snow. Swords, arrows, and spears littered the ground, none had pierced him deep enough to bring him down.
Kael drew in a long breath. His bare chest rose and fell, streaked with dried blood, his nails, long as steel blades, caked with gore. He lowered his gaze to those fingers, his natural weapons, the only tools he'd needed to tear through an entire battalion without pause. In his eyes flickered something uncertain, was it pride at slaughtering those who dragged him here, or just the fading embers of rage not yet cooled?
