The thunderous approach of the eighty Blood Hounds had sent a wave of icy terror through the Veynar loyalists.
The ground vibrated like a plucked string, and the air turned thick with white limestone dust and the foul, copper stench of the beasts' dripping jaws.
The Coalition warriors, especially Zharun cheered, believing the tide had finally turned.
In the middle of his high-speed slaughter, Sol paused.
He stood amidst a freshly carved clearing, leaving behind fifteen freshly slaughtered Coalition corpses.
Zeyra's silver-edged bone daggers hung in his reverse grip, their tips dripping thick, hot blood onto the gravel.
His neon-crimson eyes flared like twin light-clusters spinning rapidly as his heightened senses locked onto the incoming wave of six-legged monsters.
Beasts.
Sol's lips curled into a cold, calculating sneer.
