The arena had become a warzone.
Lysandra's flames roared across every surface, turning stone to molten slag. She didn't aim at Dagon directly—she couldn't—but she made the entire battlefield hostile to him, forcing him to constantly move, constantly adjust. Theron's ice worked in opposition, freezing sections of the ground that Lysandra had just heated, creating thermal shocks that cracked the very foundations of the arena.
Dagon moved through it all like smoke through fingers.
He didn't dodge so much as ignore. Flames passed through him. Ice shattered against his skin without leaving marks. Lightning arced across his form and dissipated into harmless sparks.
Kael appeared behind him, a blade of compressed space aimed at the god's neck.
Dagon turned slightly. Not fast—just slightly. The blade passed inches from his throat.
"Good try," Dagon said. "But you're thinking in three dimensions. I exist in more."
