“You’ve been hurting.” He says, gazing at you with sharp cyan eyes, watching as you sat on the cliffside overlooking Okhema. Phainon came closer to you, setting one of his hands on your shoulder. You could feel the suppressed power emanating from him, but you couldn’t care less about it now.

Mydeimos was dead. The very man that had brought you out of your solitude and demanded you fight for the people of Castrum Kremnos, hell, even Amphoreous itself, was dead. You watched his body fall after being stabbed by that wretched monster called the Flame Reaver, only standing there uselessly as that hero had died in front of you.

And now you sat on the cliffside. Alone. Watching the darkened sky and the red sphere Kephale once held that brought hope, now only bringing despair. Phainon grunted as he sat next to you, clasping his hands in front of him, scooting over and resting his head on your shoulder.

“I don’t blame you.” He said, “for wanting to give up now that he’s gone.”