"She's not a thing," Ryder snapped. "And she sure as hell isn't yours."
The golden mask tilted his head again, thoughtfully. "Is that so?"
Then he raised both hands.
The corrupted wolves shrieked—a sound never meant for mortal ears. Bones cracked. Skin split. They grew larger, twisting into monstrous forms until even the snow recoiled.
Marcus roared, "Form up!"
The seven warriors with the strength of thirty men, surged forward. Claws tore into flesh. Growls and fury filled the air.
But Ryder stood still, eyes sharp and unreadable.
He merely looked at the monsters.
A flicker of thought. A silent command.
'Explode.'
And then—
Boom.
One monstrous wolf burst apart in a spray of dark blood and bones.
Another followed, its body convulsing before detonating mid-lunge.
The air filled with shockwaves and gore, the scent of burnt corruption coating the wind.
One by one, they ignited; crimson bursts lighting up the snow like hellfire flares.
In seconds, silence fell.
