As the endless masses of green, ghoulish naked bodies poured from the portal in a hellish stampede of gnashing snarls and vicious claws, Thierry’s thunderous, commanding voice rose above the ruckus, addressing his Lycan army.
“Forget the werewolves! Attack the deamhans!” The warriors shifted their focus without hesitation; some Lycan’s white hair already soaked in the putrid, blackish demon blood by this time, having since been engaged with the grisly devils.
Even with the two hundred yards that separated her from Yuro, Nevaeh felt as if the High demon was standing within inches of her, its cold eyes and damning aura feasting on her fear. So when Yuro began to advance toward them, she inadvertently sunk into the furry chest of the Lycan who held her at Thierry's side. Panic a
