The tactical pullback from the Cinder Wyrm gorge was carried out with steady, unrushed discipline. Titus led the column, his massive shell functioning as a moving defensive castle wall that absorbed the stray sulfur blasts venting from the cliff walls. But they emerged onto a wide terrace overlooking the Sea of White Flame. Then, Arthur noticed a slight, almost barely noticeable irregularity in Grimm’s gait.
The hound was not limping—Grimm was far too proud to show weakness in a hostile zone—but his left front paw was striking the stone three split seconds later than his right. His stride was shortened. His left shoulder was held at an unnatural, rigid angle to minimize weight bearing.
Arthur raised his hand.
“Halt column,” Arthur commanded. “Field triage protocol.”
Grimm stopped right away, turning his dark head toward Arthur. The hound gave a short, defensive huff, attempting to stand at full attention. But Arthur walked directly to his left side and knelt on the glowing granulite floor.
“Sit down, scrapper,” Arthur said gently. “You don’t have to play the unbeatable warrior with me.”
Grimm looked at Arthur with his single amber eye, his stoic facade softening. The hound let out a quiet whine of relief and sat back onto his haunches. It lifted his left foreleg off the ground to present the injury to his tamer.
