Meat for the strong.
Dirtclaw had learned that phrase from his lord.
Just then, a howl echoed from the dense forest behind him.
This time, however, Dirtclaw didn't tense up. A look of ease washed over his grizzled face.
A moment later, Dace emerged from the trees, mounted on his frost wolf.
"That's the last heretic in this sector," Dace said, dismounting. He walked over to the corpse and, out of habit, prodded the demonic wolf to make sure it wasn't playing dead.
He jabbed his trident under its head, lifting it to reveal the deep puncture wounds in its neck. A clean kill. "We should continue the sweep north."
"Brother Dace, your aura is almost as strong as mine now," Dirtclaw growled, a hint of respect in his voice. "Nothing like constant warfare to make you grow stronger, right?"
