Arlon was flying.
No, not flying.
He was being thrown.
The next thing he knew, his back slammed into the wall. Stone cracked. Blood sprayed from his mouth. His health—what remained of it—dropped like a stone.
Almost gone.
He slumped, pinned to the wall like a ragdoll.
His limbs refused to move. His sword was gone. His thoughts struggled to stay coherent.
But his eyes flicked forward.
And the creature?
Still in the center of the room.
As if it hadn't moved at all.
But Arlon knew it had.
His sword—just barely—had connected.
He had aimed for his chest.
But the creature had swatted his attack aside.
A reverse slap. Not even a full swing. Just a lazy motion of its hand, like brushing away a fly.
But the sword had grazed it.
A scratch. A thin line along the creature's arm.
It bled.
But he didn't react.
He didn't even look at the wound.
Arlon wasn't sure if that was arrogance or simple indifference.
Either way, it made no move to follow up.
It just stood there.
