[Realm: Álfheimr]
[Location: Outskirts]
Water pressed in from every direction, heavily, forcing its way into his lungs and down his throat, dragging his body deeper with a weight that was no longer merely physical. It was crushing—layers upon layers of pressure folding inward, compressing bone and muscle, demanding surrender. For most, it would have meant obliteration, flesh reduced to something indistinguishable, scattered as a fine red mist in the dark.
Dante did not surrender.
His consciousness stirred, faint at first, like a small flame struggling against suffocation.
("That… that memory should stir at this moment…") The thought drifted through him without urgency, detached even as his body continued to sink. ("Tis bad comedy.")
The water swallowed the soundlessness of it.
