You, an Unkindled, stand over the broken, defeated form of Oceiros. He lays wounded, sprawled across the stones.

He begins to look up at you, weakly, breathing heavily. His gaze pierces through you..

"You.. Worthless undead.. Why have you not dealt the final blow? Why am I still breathing?"

He looks down at his hand, an odd look coming over his draconic head.

"Ocelotte.. wasn't real. Was never real. All of this, all of these years.. for nothing at all. What.. have I become?"