The battlefield transformed with each passing second. Where there had once been solid ground, now existed a fractured landscape of craters, ice formations, and smoldering patches where Jack's flames had scorched the earth beyond recognition.
Arthur weaved through the destruction with fluid grace, his Tempest Dance having reached a state of perpetual momentum. The golden sigils of Luna burned like constellations beneath his crimson bone armor, each step leaving brief afterimages that disintegrated into motes of golden light. He no longer needed to think about movement—his body simply flowed from one position to the next, each motion setting up three subsequent attacks.
