Damien sat still for a moment.
He looked at Fenrir.
The wolf's stance had shifted entirely. No longer resting. Every line of its body oriented toward the northeast, ears forward, muscles loaded. It had not made a sound. It was waiting for one word.
He looked at Luton.
The slime pulsed once—anticipatory.
He could let them handle it.
Between Fenrir and Luton, twenty-five Grade Three beasts was not a problem. Fenrir alone at full output could likely tear through most of them before they adjusted, and Luton's particular nature meant that whatever Fenrir left, Luton would finish. It would be fast and it would be complete and neither of them would take serious damage doing it.
He thought about that for a moment.
Then he thought about the last several hours.
