Eccar looked at Erend for a few seconds in silence, the only sound between them was the crackling hiss of tendrils and the distorted whispers of foreign Magic pressing at their minds. The air stank of burning stone and poisoned Magic energy. But what struck Eccar more was the glimmer in Erend's eyes. That familiar dangerous light.
It was the light of bloodlust, of the Rage.
Eccar saw it and knew the same fire burned in his own gaze.
"What about the Rage?" he asked quietly, not accusing—just reminding.
Erend blinked slowly, as if only now realizing the weight of what they were about to do. He exhaled, gaze drifting back to the swirling rift.
"At this point… I don't think there's any use in worrying about it," he said, though even he didn't sound convinced. "Honestly… we might need it. To beat that god, we might need to do something extra."
Eccar didn't like that answer. Neither did Erend. But the both of them knew—dwelling on it would only weaken their resolve.
