Terror. Terror. Terror.
"...We need to get you away from here," Blackthorn said, looking at him for a moment longer. Oliver stared at his feet, unmoving.
Terror. Terror. Terror.
He shook and his teeth chattered. He was alone now, terribly alone. It was not the mind, not even the body. It was not Oliver Patrick at all who had seized those victories. A missing ingredient made that painfully obvious. Without the approval of the Gods, there was no magic to him. It mattered not where he pointed his strength. He was reduced to that in which in reality he ought to have always been. A mere eighteen-year-old boy, with a body covered in scars, and a weight of a past that he could not even bear to think on, and now saddled with a responsibility so immense that he knew he would never live up to it.
Worse than those things, however, was the sense of crushing loneliness. For all the light of the fire that burned its way through Solgrim, Oliver Patrick found himself in complete darkness.
