The blade bit deep.
But not deep enough.
At the last possible instant, Varkos twisted—not wildly, not panicked, but with eerie control. The motion was subtle, almost elegant. Just enough of a shift to change the angle.
The Dreadlord's death-forged weapon, once aimed to pierce the Archfiend's heart, instead scraped against ribs—skimming past the fatal zone by mere inches.
A burst of black ichor erupted from the wound, arcing into the air like oil flung from a forge. It hissed as it touched the ground, vaporizing on impact—leaving behind scorched cracks and sizzling stones.
Sylen seeing this kicked off the ground, boots grinding against debris, and launched himself back into the chaos. The momentum was his only anchor now.
Only forward.
Dreadlord came down again with his sword, hammering toward Varkos with the weight of a collapsing star.
But the Archfiend moved effortlessly.
