Matlock's body ached, torn and battered. He bit his lip, holding onto the remains of his combat uniform pressed against his chest. Beneath the dirty bandages wrapped tightly around him, his wounds throbbed, but oddly enough, most of the blood coating his body wasn't his own.
He was filthy, slick with dried crimson, yet of the entire group, he was the least injured. It wasn't because he had run from battle—he had fought just as fiercely as the others—but he had danced through the chaos, weaving between enemies like a lethal specter, striking with precision and vanishing before they could retaliate.
Matlock's gaze drifted to Xander, who lay unconscious, his body battered beyond recognition. He had taken blow after blow, shielding them with his own flesh. Nearby, Leona was also unconscious—she had been the one to deal the initial damage with her lightning, weakening the war troll just enough for them to stand a chance.
