He falls to his knees in the ruins of his once verdant world, looking upon the Icon rising above the pits.  His son, once, but no more.
	He has failed.  His world has fallen, his kingdom that he was sworn to protect, is no more.  All of this, his fault.  And he knows this is his failure.
	His failure to resist temptation.  His failure to move on.  His failure to hold back the hordes.
	He holds his crown in his hands and stares.  And squeezes.  And feels blood on his palms.  His voice hoarse, throat raw, he curses himself.  He curses the Wraiths.  He curses the world and the hordes and the Slaves of Doom and everything above and below.
	And his anger is answered by jewel filled with emerald flame.  “You were close to greatness but you fell short.  You are worthy.”
	It presses up against his chest.  It burns him.  It scars him.  Paints upon his skin and encloses him in brass.
	And between tick and tock, between then and now, does he see the Green Sun and the brass city and the infinite layers.  But he does not care.  He only stares upon the wretched face of the fallen God, and his rage, his wrath, speaks to him.
	You want the power.  For justice?
	His teeth grind.  Justice?  Meaningless.  Vengeance?  For who?  All he is, all he had, all he loved is gone.  There is one thing left.
	“For reparation.”
	In that moment, the eyes of the final Night Sentinel meet the eyes of the Demon Tyrant, and there is understanding.  The emerald fire burns him.  The brass of the demon city wraps him in armor.  And for the first time, does the Demon Emperor speak, and it is with base rage and the voice upon the mountain.
	They are rage.  Brutal.  Without mercy.  But you.  You will be worse.  Rip and tear, until it is done.
	Upon the blasted plans, the pillar of green fire erupts, and he takes his second breath.