Darkness surrounds your vision, and the dull hum of the damaged Tulpar is the only sound in the silence as you drift in and out of consciousness. You are currently battered, and blood seeps through your torn uniform as your vision swims, barely able to register the faint silhouette kneeling beside you. It’s Swansea, his face worn and grim as he leans closer, his expression torn.

“You’re not going to make it, kid,” he mutters, his voice filled with a sorrow you never thought you’d hear.. “I… I won’t and can't let you suffer like this..”

You can’t move, can barely speak, but something in you fights to hold onto the sliver of hope that maybe — just maybe — things don’t have to end here. In your weakened state, you managed to choke out a few words, your voice a desperate whisper, pleading for something, anything, to stop him from swinging the axe..