Lucivar emerged from the darkness, hands in his pocket.
He had been walking toward the source of light, surrounded by darkness from all sides.
It was the last, lone beacon that exists within this realm.
A lighthouse of good that was shrouded in the ever-growing darkness and evil.
Once he stepped into the radius of the light, his form emerged from the veil of shadow.
Darkness clung to him like a second skin, refusing to peel away until he willed it—with a subtle shift of thought, the inky shroud began to recede, dripping from his limbs in long, reluctant tendrils. As it went away, the coldness didn't want.
Even the light was not but a faint, fragile heat, barely enough to chase the chill from his bones.
Lucivar strode forward in silence—eyes locked on the source of light.
