It took several minutes before they dared crawl out from the shrubbery.
The air around them still carried the faint echo of wings, the aftershock of the swarm's passage.
Snowflakes drifted gently, disturbed only by the hiss of melted patches where poison had spilled earlier.
Azel pushed branches aside and rose, brushing frost from his shoulders.
He wondered — truly wondered if he could have taken the swarm on his own.
A single Dreadhorn had nearly gutted him, and that was with Medusa's overwhelming spider assault and Veyra's killing blow.
Against twenty?
Thirty?
An entire flock?
His jaw tightened.
If it was just him, perhaps he could abuse his healing factor, endure the attacks long enough to unleash Dragon Claw.
Maybe he could burn through them.
But there was no guarantee.
Not when those creatures had reflexes sharp enough to dodge sword strikes, venom potent enough to melt stone, and regeneration that bordered on absurd.
