The metallic stench slammed into Petra's enhanced sensesblood, but not the stagnant decay that choked the battlefield. Fresh blood, still warm, mingled with the distinctive musk she'd learned to associate with apex predators. Her grip welded to her katana's hilt as her pale eyes dissected the horizon through the perpetual gloom.
"Eleven signatures," Gareth reported, his voice carrying the flat precision of someone relaying tactical intelligence. "Crimson Maulers. Moving in coordinated formation."
Petra felt her stomach twist. Three of these creatures had nearly butchered her before massive, intelligent hunters with pack tactics honed through countless successful kills. Now they faced eleven, approaching with the methodical patience of predators who knew their prey had nowhere to run.
"That's more than you've handled before," she observed, noting how Gareth's expression remained analytically calm despite the impossible odds.
