"I am fine, Lucien," Julian whispered back, a small, genuine smile softening his features as he looked at Alaric and their son.
He could feel the god's lingering sorrow fading into the background of his subconscious, replaced by his own stubborn, mortal drive to survive.
"The connection between him and me is active, but it is stable. Yet," He placed his hand over his chest. "...the sooner we finish here and march, the better. I want this over with."
"We will end it," Alaric said flatly, his jaw setting into that stubborn, lethal line. "No matter what that fallen god has waiting at the pass."
Julian nodded. He was glad Alaric was here. He was a great emotional and mental support.
By the time the afternoon light began to wane outside the Spire, the entire arsenal of the northern knight order—along with the elite vanguard of the Holy Knights—stood fully insulated, their weapons vibrating with an unyielding white light.
