“I no longer accept the Nexua.”

Togua’s powerful voice resounded through the domed amphitheater, echoing back and forth until all other voices were quieted in shock. Eloquinthian and Sandorian alike all turned to face the Elder of Earth, expressions of confusion, some of anger, contorting the array of colored masks. Hundreds of glowing eyes stared fixedly in his direction.

“Togua-” Septigon began.

“Do not interrupt me, Emberlord,” the elder answered sharply, cutting a swift arc with his staff in provocation. “The Heroes have failed us. The horde has driven us to the last stronghold: here in the heart of Trobani. My people tend your dying and wounded. The sky is taken from us.”

Each phrase Togua uttered increasingly revealed his long-hidden anger. This display was unprecedented; the elder was known for his calm logic. Septigon’s heart sank in disbelief at what was happening.

Togua stood to his diminutive height, green eyes ablaze, staff raised.

“We make our own fate. I choose to return to Nexu. Myself.”