The final two abominations tore through the forest like battering rams of flesh and bone, each step cracking roots, each movement heralding dread. But unlike their predecessors, these two did not attack from different angles or split paths. They moved in a single line—one leading, one following close behind.
It was a clever, terrifying tactic. The first took the brunt of the traps, the surprise attacks, the shouts and steel. And where it stumbled or was struck, the second—watchful, unnervingly perceptive, retaliated. Knights who lunged at the leading monster found themselves suddenly blindsided by the follower. And those who were ready to retreat or reposition found the first snapping its twisted limb around them like a club.
The strategy—strike and hide—was breaking. The abominations were learning. Evolving.
