I moved from battlefield to battlefield, striking like lightning, killing Conclave mages wherever I found them. I did not stop to rest or think, and the fox did not participate in this slaughter; she just remained by my side.
I just kept moving and killing, feeding the cold thing in my chest, and if not for the warmth of the fox on my shoulder, I feared by now I would be ice.
By the fourth battlefield I had stopped roughly counting the dead, and started counting the towns. The mages I was killing were men and women, both the young and old… I could see their faces, could hear their hearts stop beating, and their soul leaving their bodies, but whatever this should have made me feel was buried under the coldness I could feel from the burning continent.
The mages I was killing had become a rate, a thing that happened at a known speed when I arrived, roughly two minutes per battlefield regardless of how many were in it.
