Infante

The chemical ignited with a whoosh, rolling into the air up and around the Infante in a way that suggested some of it was airborne, before it had caught the flame.

The Infante, midway to working his way to a full standing position, burned.  Things from further down the warehouse took notice of the light and sound.  The primordial-spawn superweapon would be among them.

I allowed myself a second to take in the scene, the Infante as a silhouette, surrounded and framed by flames.  He didn’t scream or flinch.

> > [...]

The Infante was scorched, flesh peeling from body in black, twisted clusters rimmed by red, damaged flesh, fluids streaking him as they flowed from open wounds.  He didn’t look weaker, for the damage that had been done.  He didn’t hang his head any lower, he didn’t bow down.  He didn’t look less, wearing his battle wounds rather than his highest-quality robes.

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The Infante glowered, his veneer of humanity pulling away.  He was burned, but the burns hadn’t penetrated far past the surface, his skin almost seeming to grow tougher where the fire had seared it.  He remained unfazed by the life and death fight between the Duke and the Golden Calf that was moving back and forth around him, the two combatants within his arm’s reach at times.

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