"Hey kid, I'll push forward—drive it toward the west edge of town," Titus called out suddenly.
He didn't appear with footsteps or a shout—he appeared from the air, dropping down above Enzo like a burst of compressed wind. His cloak snapped violently behind him, and there was an intense look of anticipation on his face, the kind that came only from the thrill of the hunt.
Below them, the Viscount Great Terror thrashed and bellowed. The monstrous creature was a towering hybrid of flesh and chitin, with jagged limbs that scraped trenches into the sand. Its body was heaving, breath trembling. It had been worn down through hours of fighting—Titus hammering it from above, the other weavers cutting off its escape routes, and now Enzo relentlessly chasing it.
They were about to kill a Viscount.
A monster that entire squads normally avoided unless properly prepared.
Enzo didn't bother responding. Titus wasn't asking—he was declaring.
