The clash dragged on, each passing moment grinding against Loren Vance's body and mind like a whetstone against dulled steel. Erebus's hulking figure loomed before him, its pitch-black fur bristling with unnatural vitality, its scarred cheek glistening under the faint glow of torches. Every time the wolf lunged, the air itself seemed to split, and Loren could feel the ground tremble under the sheer weight of its presence. His arms ached, his breathing burned, yet his body refused to collapse.
Why?
That question gnawed at him as much as Erebus's claws. He should have been shredded already. He should have fallen beneath the devil's pet, another failed pawn in this twisted game. Yet here he was, dodging by a thread, parrying when he should not have been able, countering in ways that even he had not expected of himself. The wolf's feral strikes forced every ounce of his being into action, but instead of drowning, he was floating—barely, shakily, but undeniably afloat.
