Kira crashed into his chest.
She hit him hard, ignoring the thick layer of mud, gore, and beetle brain matter caking his ruined silver armor. Her arms wrapped tight around his neck, burying her face into his shoulder.
Sol tried to lift his arms to hug her back. He really did. His brain gave the command, but his muscles simply refused to answer.
The heavy, iridescent length of the Dreadwing Blade slipped from his numb fingers. It hit the bloody mud with a dull, wet thud.
The exact second the sword left his hand, the adrenaline that had been holding his broken body together just completely evaporated. It was like someone pulled a plug in the back of his head. The massive influx of essence he had sucked from the Rockhorn Beetle had stitched up his torn flesh just enough to keep him from bleeding out, but it hadn't done a damn thing for his totally drained Sun Core. He was running on less than fumes. He was running on empty, scorched pathways.
