The needle spike descended, its tip striking down onto Beelathorn's head with surgical precision.
However, all it met was empty space.
Beelathorn... or at least the shell of him, was a meter away with his dagger in hand... wings spread like an angel warrior.
"Well done, dearest," the shadow woman taunted, her laughter echoing off the walls. "You dance like a pretty little butterfly with clipped wings."
Yet still, no response came from Beelathorn's lips. His face was one of fire and stone... eyes a steadied flame that studied the walls.
The pools of ink appeared once more, dozens of them, crowding the walls above and below him. Needlework would soon rain down upon him, and yet, fear did not defile his mind.
No, it now belonged to the fight entirely.
Projections pumped in his brain like lifeblood. Range calculations, flight patterns, and the limitations of his own body aligned like cells in a hive.
