The ground around Aleron steamed with heat and the stink of charred flesh.
His claws dripped ichor in slow, deliberate rivulets, each drop hissing where it landed in molten pools of metal and blood.
Ash hung in the air like a suffocating fog. The scattered remains of the wave of abominations twitched faintly before going still for good.
The oppressive rhythm of the horde's roars had faded, replaced by a silence that was heavier than any sound.
Too heavy.
Aleron's narrowed eyes swept the broken horizon. The battlefield lay in ruin for hundreds of meters, pockmarked with smoking craters and jagged spires of metal.
Even the lesser abominations, Tier 2 and Tier 3 stragglers, lingered far at the edge of sight, unwilling to step into the scorched circle around him.
A prickle ran along the base of his neck.
His dragon senses tightened like a coiled wire. The air itself seemed to grow denser, resisting the movement of his wings.
It was not fear from the horde. It was something else.
