The quarry's air hung heavy with the stench of blood and scorched earth, the Ironstone Crystals glinting faintly in the torchlight.
Kael's wolf-riders moved swiftly, binding seven injured bandits with coarse rope, forcing them to their knees in a tight row.
The bandits' faces were pale, their armor tattered, their eyes darting between the snarling wolves and the blood-soaked ground. The riders flanked them with spears lowered, their wolves' growls low and menacing.
Kael stepped forward, his Bloodthread Mantle swaying, a faint smirk curling his lips. His silver eyes gleamed with amusement, but his voice carried a cold edge. "I've got to ask," he said, pacing slowly before the trembling men, "what gave you the guts to raid Wolfswood's villages and mines? Valthorne? Valcroft? Or just plain ignorance?" His words hung in the air, sharp and mocking, his gaze flicking from one bandit to the next.
