The woman looked at Alaric's form. Bleeding, barely conscious on the ground.
"Finish him," she said coldly.
One of the hooded figures adjusted his grip on his blade. Nodded.
But just as he turned to move—
A voice cut through the forest.
"Die, wermling."
CRACKLE!
A bolt of red lightning erupted and struck the hooded man's head.
BOOM!
His skull exploded.
Gore and bone fragments scattered.
The headless body stood for a moment—twitching, swaying—before collapsing forward into the dirt with a heavy thud.
Blood pooled from where the head had been once.
Alaric stood at his place.
Sweat soaked through his clothes, plastering fabric to his skin. His chest heaved with each ragged breath. Blood still ran from his wounds.
But his eyes.
They were literally burning crimson. Bright enough to cast red light on the ground around him. And his pupils were gone vertical slits.
The remaining three figures froze.
One of them took an involuntary step backward. His weapon hand trembled.
