Torin scrambled up from the ground and finished it with a clean knife-thrust through the neck joint.
Within ten breaths, the three-man patrol was completely destroyed.
The three leopard warriors stood over the carcasses, their chests heaving, their faces caked in green fluid and grey mud. They looked down at their bloody daggers and then back at Sol, who was walking out of the shadow of the ironwood trunk with his arms crossed over his chest.
Their faces were flushed with a messy mix of wild excitement and profound realization. The strategy had worked perfectly.
By systematically destroying the stalkers' lower joint stability instead of fighting their high agility, a fight that usually cost Veynar blood had been executed without a single scratch on their leather gear.
