Sylas stood there, Old Brama's smoking laser gun by the side of his head still, pointed forward and steady as though to protect him from whatever might come next.
Calmness was in their very bones. From the moment Old Brama decided that he was riding this ship to the very end, he had accepted whatever might come with that.
The Golden Grove had been in a rut for too long, and at their current pacing, they would simply never be able to accomplish what their Ancestors expected of them. Like so many powers that came before, they would simply fade into obscurity until there was nothing more of what they once represented.
Sylas was a chance to change that.
Maybe he would die before he could see it through to the end, but he would just have to accept that. There was simply no better person to bet on right now than him.
The first thing they saw when the clicking of shoes finally came to a stop was the wall of black.
