What remained of Rash'alon's horde dominated a stretch of plains nearly a mile across, ranging from seventh-level behemoths to first-level scions. Almost every demon's soul was shrouded in curse mana, but there were a fair number of fire and blade demons betwixt them. All of the demons bore unfamiliar marks, even the curse ones.
"A collection of all who wouldn't accept the young apostle's mark," Fyren murmured.
If Luke's demons had been restless, this horde was near riotous. Scions fought openly, rolling in snapping, snarling balls of teeth and scales. A fourth-level evolved demon tore a group of scions apart with a casual flick of its claws, splattering the withered grass in blood. I flinched at the violence, gripping Fable's fur.
"I-is it because he's dead?" I asked timidly.
Fyren chuckled, shaking his head. "No, this is the typical state of a horde. Remember what I said about how demons change to reflect the one who holds their mark?"
