The grip of a demon Warlord was supposed to be strong. Dyrroth could crush solid volcanic boulders into fine dust with a simple squeeze of his fist, but as the warlord tightened his massive, dark gray fingers around Kairos' throat, something impossible happened. His fingers simply stopped moving.
It wasn't a physical resistance. The space occupying Kairos' skin had become a fixed, immovable point in reality. Dyrroth grunted, his massive bicep bulging with terrifying effort. He poured his raw dark magic into his hand, trying to snap the human boy's neck.
Nothing happened. Kairos' neck felt like it was forged from the bedrock of the universe itself. Kairos hung in the air, looking into the Warlord's shimmering yellow eyes. The silver light burning in Kairos' irises was no longer a gentle, divine glow. It was an intense storm.
