'I, Kazuraga, the only Dark Satyr of my race, will fall here? To these infants?'
This was the thought swirling in the mythical spawn's head.
He had always been twisted and conniving, uncaring of what he had to do to survive and grow stronger, honor and dignity be damned.
But what was this?
His fresh dismemberment was so painful that his sanity was barely holding on, and yet, a majority of his focus was on the fact that he was about to die at the hands of puny novice bladeborns.
Was this pride?
He, the one stripped of all honor by his brother, exiled from the Eastern Satyrian High Kingdom despite being the most loyal of retainers, someone who has discarded the very things that he thought only made him weak, still dared to think about pride?
Perhaps ego was the more accurate word?
Whatever. He was about to die soon, anyway.
