Red descended into the snowfield like a hungry phantom. The dagger hummed in the air, a violent, eager vibration that cut through the storm with frightening precision. It darted between fallen wolves in sweeping arcs, and thin ribbons of crimson light rose from every corpse it passed, drawn upward as though the blood itself had been commanded to obey.
SSSHHH!
The blood lifted from the snow, drifting like steaming red mist before funneling directly into the blade. Each slain direwolf's essence surged into Red, deepening its glow, saturating its color into a darker, richer crimson that throbbed with life. Bruce could feel the weapon tremble in satisfaction, drinking the battlefield dry.
He let it feast.
Ash, meanwhile, finished the last survivors without hesitation. One wolf attempted to flee, scrambling across the ice in blind terror, but Ash crushed it beneath a single claw, pinning it effortlessly.
