Alaric felt the eyes of many mortals upon something as he sprinted toward the parking lot. His stomach sank as he saw a darkly shrouded figure billowing a black fog from the bottoms of a tattered cloak.
He'd seen that shape before, and there was simply no mistaking its owner.
Even worse, within the arms of Thanaros itself, his Dira was cradled, her body limp and lifeless.
"She can't be dead," he growled. "Not while I still breathe—she isn't dead!"
He charged at top speed, tearing the Angel's Tear off his hip. He did not wear armor for this encounter—all he had was his whip, a pair of jorts, and a black sleeveless tee.
But it would have to be enough.
"Ah. I was wondering when you'd come," Thanaros bellowed, raising his head.
His skeletal face, bleached white, shone under the pale light of the moon like a beacon of malevolence.
He was already twice the height of a normal man, or nearly, but as Alaric struggled to close the gap between them, the monster…grew.
