[center][b]Lucius Delacroix[/b][/center]

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Lucius felt the relative urge to simply collapse and rest. The strenous aches and fatigue plaguing through his body were near as great as the fire burning through his pounding chest. He had given everything to simply commit to their renewed survival and found a tempting urge to simply surrender himself to Yadin-Hamon and Athirat's kingdom above. His sights swept towards the raging inferno, the shades as well as the dead and dying. His labored steps carried him through the screeching shade covered stairs. The girl that leaned into him, his Assassin companion, the unconscious Councillor Gisgo, and the Valanian resistance leaders that had begun to gather under the pulsating shaded ceilings. Elsewhere, his eyes swept towards the remaining, hardened Nezamnis that had already regrouped and carried their wounded towards the stairwell.

If it ended here, what would he tell his holy father and mother upon arriving to their kingdom? What would justify what had come of the Delacroix family and how would he justify his actions? How would he explain himself and how he and the last of his line carried themselves during their last moments? Certainly, they would judge him for how quickly Valania had devolved from an age old realm to a debauched wasteland only fit for the treacherous highborns and their ruthless pickings. Nothing would have come of his sacrifices, the shattered Valanian kingdom's suffering, and the injustices that had followed the War. 

The manner in which the Château burned proved just how far the vile reaches petty Sarifen aristocrats turned to achieve their means. To this end, it seemed likely he would die a broken man of a dead lineage. It was how the Prince of the fabled jewelled Principality of Kronzewall, the proud Seville's of the now shattered city-states of Tyrun, the successors of Folken the Great, and countless others throughout what was known as the Age of Nobility. If a live existence could present a case, the fallen retinue that had accompanied Councillor Gisgo was the display of how power had surrounded each civilization's aristocratic order. The few ruled over the many and seized the finest riches as long as illusion, prestige, and rewards followed in their wake. For all it was worth, he, Lucius Delacroix, Prince of Valania and heir to the throne had once commanded an entire Kingdom before his fall from grace by the hands of others. 

His face quickly became covered in ash as he moved his way down the cellar steps, carrying Ona through the thickened haze of grey smoke. Cries for help amongst the Valanian resistance rang out and the few remaining leaders that had managed to survive the collapse quickly made their way under the pulsating shades to find cover. As Lucius moved his way downwards, smoke began to cloud a debris strew opening where flames began to emerge and lick through openings along the battered cellar ceiling beams. The staircase chamber roared from behind as the blazes of the raging inferno burst into hungry flames and suffocating fumes. The air grew thin as many of the chamber's occupants began to cough and sputter from expanding clouds of immense grey fog. Through sputtered coughs, Lucius violently slammed into the walls before shouting, “Bâtards consanguines! To hell with them for trying to burn us alive!”
                           
“Magi,” Lucius panted as his eyes swept away from the bald headed man's corpse and back towards the mysterious armored man, “I did not even catch your name. When time is permitted, perhap you can offer it.”