*B—Zz—zt!*
Hawke's lightning flickered, it's once blinding light now as dim as the embers of a dying furnace.
The Shield of Frostfront had chinks and cracks, and was slowly shattering.
The thousands upon thousands of lives that rested on his shoulders, a burden which he bore tenaciously.
The circuits, or rather, the Stigma adorning his frame slowly fading like the streams of a drying river.
The bones on his forearm protruding like the frame of a broken umbrella. And only one of his arms were adorned by featherblades.
His pale white complexion, now marred by the color of his dried blood, his body trembling profusely, begging him to stop, begging him to relent.
And yet, his eyes shone brightly like the raging flames of an inferno, adrenaline gushing through his veins like waters from a broken dam.
He was the sole light that flickered ferociously amidst the darkness that is Atticus Klein.
"*Huff*,*huff*... "
