The monsters in the Winter Expanse were powered by a more controlled version of the Battle Mode that people born of the Winter had.
That faint but constant rage gave them an edge — sharper claws, denser bodies, quicker instincts.
To hunt them was never simple; even the strongest Hunters had perished because of one careless mistake.
Azariah knew this, which was why his son's return made him pause.
Thirty Arctic bears.
Ten Ice Hounds.
All neatly slain, dragged back as if they were nothing but rabbits on a roadside.
He had lost his composure earlier, blurting his shock, but he caught himself now and straightened his back, adopting the smile of a Patriarch.
"This is a great amount for your first hunt, my son," Azariah said warmly, voice carrying enough authority for the surrounding Hunters to hear.
The others nodded, though their expressions betrayed their awe.
This was the Patriarch's heir; such feats should be expected of him.
