[Realm: Álfheimr]
[Location: Outskirts]
The world lurched.
Five streaks of red lightning tore down from the skies in rapid succession, each one angling to cut off escape, to herd rather than kill. Orthrus had learned. The bolts carved incandescent scars through the skies as they descended, detonating upon impact with the plains in roaring columns of heat and force.
Dante was already moving.
He slipped through the attack, feet finding purchase where none should exist, one bolt passed so close it illuminated the black of his helmet in blinding red-white light. Another cratered the earth inches from his heel, the shockwave ripping at his coat, fur lining snapping violently behind him.
His breathing stayed even.
Pain flared in his left arm as he twisted but he locked it down, folded it away. He had long since learned the difference between pain that mattered and pain that lied.
A shadow surged behind him.
