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There's an imperceptible beauty of taking down your foe the same instant they also lay a fatal blow upon you.
He had accomplished what he’d dared to do: kill the Astromancer and end his corrupted reign. That is enough. There are no witnesses but the gods; no one to record his deeds and sing of them. Spies do not deserve pretty words and melodious vocals about their deeds.
Only a few gasps between living and the ever-creeping darkness encroaching on his vision. He doesn’t know where he’ll go upon death. He is Lightborn, destined for the Vale of Celenthodiel, yet he had fought as hard as a warrior destined for the Silver Hooves.
Or will Great Queen Pelashia be unable to decide for him, and cast him aside to wander homeless until the stars grew cold?
The very thought of that makes him want to weep, and he has no tears to shed.
One more gasp. Pain? Relief? Harwing doesn’t know.
He may have uttered a name with his last breath, but there is no one to hear it.