Pain became the rhythm of the fight.
Damien was sent skidding across the forest floor again, boots carving twin trenches through dirt and shattered roots. His back slammed against a thick tree trunk hard enough to split the bark and send a spiderweb of cracks racing through the wood. Leaves rained down as the tree groaned, half-toppled.
He pushed himself off it before it could finish falling.
Blood dripped from his chin, dark and warm, spattering onto the ground. His chest rose and fell steadily, controlled despite the damage screaming through his nerves.
Every breath reminded him that several ribs were still fractured, healing but not yet whole.
Across the clearing, the demon straightened.
Its form was battered—shell cracked in multiple places, one wing useless, black blood matting its torso—but it stood tall nonetheless. Essence rolled off it in thick, oppressive waves, the air warping slightly around its body.
It laughed.
