It was a strange voice. An echo muffled by a helm made of adamantite. And yet Frank spoke for the very first time.
I stared at him with an incredulous look, confusion and worry plastered all over my face. As I gazed at my fallen sentinel, I could feel him gazing back.
He was not dead. He was merely broken. His body had been shredded in the middle, bits and pieces of armor littered about. His spear lay on the ground to his right, gripped lightly by a once firm hand.
It was a bittersweet comfort, but this was a victory I was willing to receive. In the face of utter defeat and death, it sufficed. Frank could still be repaired, his wounds mended, his power restored.
But that was not what occupied my mind. No. Frank spoke. And when he spoke, his tone carried with him a weight that had thus far been absent to every single one of my children.
The weight of a soul. A real, unique, and budding soul.
