They rolled in like waves against a shore, each one a pulse of power absorbed, each one another fraction of the gap between him and the continent's ceiling closing. His dutiful soul armies were grinding hard, and their gains became his.
Elite Souls could not level up, they had to be upgraded by their Necromancer. As such, XP was useless to them. They handed it all off to their master, who accepted every drop with open arms.
His girls were thorough, their organized efforts sounding in his [Master's Link] as they coordinated with each other.
Quinlan flew south alone while his allies kept working. But they only attacked dwarven settlements.
Why?
Multiple reasons.
The dwarves had earned his ire. Ragnar had made it personal the moment he'd brought that hammer down. The king who'd clasped a slave collar around their lover's neck made all the women feel a collective fury.
He and his cronies had to pay in blood.
But that wasn't all.
