But as he sat there in the shadows of the purple canopy, a deeply dangerous, intoxicating thought began to creep into his mind.
The Lord Beast bloodlines.
He looked away from the crater, his crimson eyes peering through the dense canopy toward the distant North, where the two Layer 3 Lords… the gargantuan Dreadwing and the colossal Great Badger… are fighting.
Sol knew… he absolutely knew… that going back for them was incredibly, monumentally risky.
It was the kind of monumentally stupid, arrogant risk that usually got side-characters killed in the middle chapters of a fantasy novel.
He had just escaped a gruesome, agonizing death by the absolute skin of his teeth, relying on a combination of extreme luck, infinite stamina, and suicidal wits to kite hundreds of monsters into this exact meat grinder.
Going back out there, or trying to capitalize on this current war, meant exposing himself to the apex predators of the Great Orrath all over again.
