The brambles closed in, their thorns seeking out the cracks in his focus, the weaknesses in his defence. He forced more and more dark aether into his spell, gritting his teeth as he struggled to hold mind and soul separate as he weaved. The closer they drew him in, the less the Warden's gilded limbs seemed to glitter.

More. Even more. He was one man against a creature whose monstrous strength only grew with each victory - and that was before their transformation. Did he even stand a chance...?

No, he could not allow himself to think that.

"Persephone, please," he whispered, staring into their Light-tinged soul. "Help me."

As the Lightwarden's writhing tendrils enclosed his shield, he threw all caution to the wind and dedicated his remaining energies to erasing the blight on his friend's soul. If he died for this then so be it.

With everything he loved gone there was little left worth living for.