The spatial transit dropped Theo Althalos onto the jagged, slate-colored crags of Floor Twelve with an impact that sent a sharp spike of agony through his fractured left shoulder.
The air on this floor was barren and dry, smelling of pulverized rock, ancient sulfur, and stagnant dust.
Vast canyons of dark shale cut across the landscape like open wounds, framed by violent crosswinds that whipped loose gravel across the barren plateaus.
There was no ocean here, no deep-sea barrier to hide an enemy, yet the sheer physical desolation offered zero comfort to the battered elven captain.
Theo clung to the dragon's neck, his right hand shaking around the pommel of his broadsword.
His silver plate armor was a ruined mess of crushed filigree, dented plates, and crusted indigo demon blood.
His breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps, his vision swimming with gray spots of exhaustion.
