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“They should be kinder to you, more grateful, more appreciative of how you struggle for the sake of their petty wants and weak wills; they should be frightened of you; they take advantage of you, they bleed you dry, they hurt you hurt you hurt you — your life thrown away for people who would never do the same for you —”
The Warrior deliberately does not look at the shadow lingering in the corner of her eye; instead she unclenches her jaw, takes a deep breath, wipes her blade clean and sheathes it on her back. Her shadow whispers what it pleases (truths sweet and shameful alike) and though she cannot stop it she does not need to give it the satisfaction of seeing her come undone.
The Warrior is like the sun, blinding and blistering — her afterimage sears itself white-hot into his vision as she lunges for him greatsword-first. Zenos meets her blow with uncommon exhilaration.
The last time they fought, she had faced him alone. But something has changed. Now there is something else here with them: some seething shadow that dogs her every step, that tries just as keenly to plunge its blade within his chest, that makes Zenos’ heart beat with more than mere mechanical apathy.