The wind blew cold across the northern plains, carrying the metallic scent of blood and ozone. Eryndor walked along the encampment's wooden palisades, his cloak flapping against his back. Soldiers were already preparing for patrols, sharpening blades, checking traps, and murmuring quietly about sightings of the larger wolf-lion packs that had grown bolder after his initial encounters.
Eryndor's boots crunched over frost-hardened dirt. He glanced down at the notes he had been keeping—attack patterns, weaknesses, pack hierarchies. Knowledge was as important as raw power out here. Every miscalculation could cost a life.
"Morning, storm-born," called one of the scouts, a wiry young man with a scar across his cheek. "Another pack moved east overnight. Looks bigger than last time."
Eryndor nodded without speaking, slipping into the shadows near the ridge. The first light of day glinted on the plains, revealing movement far below—dozens of wolf-lions, larger and faster than before, their muscles rippling beneath sleek fur.
He had faced them once, but now he knew their tactics. This time, he would anticipate, strike, and control the battlefield.
The pack moved with unnerving coordination. The alpha led, flanked by two enormous subordinates. They spread out, attempting to funnel prey toward the ridge where Eryndor was stationed.
He struck first. His fist crackled with lightning, sending the nearest wolf-lion tumbling backward. Its companions hesitated, snarling, but didn't retreat.
Eryndor advanced, moving like a living storm:
A pounce from the left — duck, elbow to ribs, the beast flung aside. A leap from the rear — twist, palm into its chest, sparks arcing along fur and claws. Two attackers charging simultaneously — spin, step into the gap, fists striking like hammers, sending both crashing into the dirt.
The alpha roared, shaking the ground. Eryndor met it head-on, lightning coiling along his arms. He didn't kill — not yet — but forced the creature back with overwhelming power.
From the ridge below, soldiers coordinated traps and ranged attacks, but Eryndor's focus remained on movement, reading the pack like a predator. Every strike was deliberate, a mix of martial precision and elemental force.
By noon, the pack had scattered, leaving only tracks behind. The soldiers cheered quietly, though Eryndor barely smiled. He knew this was only the beginning.
Back at the encampment, the air smelled of fire and iron. Eryndor helped carry a wounded scout to the medic tent. He spoke little, letting his storm settle in his veins, feeling the subtle exhaustion beneath the adrenaline.
He sat by the fire later, sharpening his own blade, the sparks reflecting in his storm-lit eyes. Around him, soldiers laughed softly, shared rations, and tended to minor injuries. A small semblance of normalcy.
But he was already planning. Larger packs, hybrid void-born creatures, territorial primordials—the world was bigger than the northern plains, and each success here would only draw the attention of far greater threats.
A scout approached quietly. "Sir… there's a patrol returning from the eastern cliffs. They report something… unusual."
Eryndor looked up, expression calm, storm humming faintly beneath the surface. "Show me," he said.
The scout nodded and led him to the edge of the ridge. The sun glinted on a shape moving across the horizon—massive, quadrupedal, scales shimmering faintly with elemental energy. Not a wolf-lion. Not a void-born. Something older, far larger.
Eryndor's lips curved faintly. "Then the campaign truly begins."
The northern plains had tested him. But the world beyond would demand everything he had—and more.