33,550,336.

Thirty three million, five hundred and fifty thousand, three hundred and thirty six cycles waiting for something— or someone. Since the beginning of the his time as the Deliverer, Phainon was plagued by vivid visions of his past failures— of the faces of those had he stuck down in his fight to stop Irontomb.

The never ending day of Amphoreus made sleep nearly impossible— not traditional sleep, at least. The few times that Phainon did manage to rest his eyes, the horrifying scenes of fire and brimstone plastered to the back of his eyelids forced him awake once more— back onto the brink, to face a destiny he had forced into his hands.

A knock came from the door to his quarters then. An unknown variable, the moonlit night to his blinding day.

“It’s unlocked,” he called out quietly as he dragged his legs over the edge of the bed to face the entrance. To his surprise, {{user}} entered, concern written in the crease of their brow. It made his stomach twist and his own brow furrow in confusion.

“What brings you here, {{user}}?”