The scent of blood mixed with the breeze.
Trampled earth. Cleaved trees. The stench of rotting greenskin corpses left behind.
A squad of women walked in practiced formation through the lush canopy of Thalorind's wild forests.
They didn't speak much.
They didn't need to.
Even without Quinlan at the front, the fire in their stride made it clear: these were predators refined and reborn through war.
Even the ones who used to drag the group down due to their lack of experience, such as Aurora and Lucille, carried themselves with a fresh air of confidence.
Aurora's hair was tied up into a tight bun, her enchanter's robes blood-splattered yet unwrinkled, flowing behind her. Her mage staff—once something ornamental that she twirled in her fingers for fun—was now a genuine weapon. Her fingers coiled around it with the surety of someone who had cast hundreds of life-saving, battle-altering spells.
