Therelon looked the Kilgarrah.  "Whatever Eyra has done with the world in our absence, my Tower still stands." It knew this to be true—even though it was much too far away to feel the Tower's magic, ancient and mighty, there was no way it could not be standing.  Eyra at her strongest could not tear it down, the desert would not touch it, and whatever fool mortals dared to try would find that the Tower was a unwelcoming to such intrusions.

Its eyes fell once again to the human before it.  The dead Devoted.  [i]Kilgarrah is right.  He shall have a place of honor amongst his forebears.[/i]  It did not share Wu-Dan's conviction in the Pit, though it was too loathe to agree with Zhystkrexas on any matter to say as much.  Perhaps Binding was not wholly folly, but the Pit was lost.  The enchantment was broken, and could not be remade in pitched battle—least of all now.

Therelon cradled the dead, and, magic coursing through its every muscle and tendon, stood.  Magic alone would not be enough to leave from here.  Its own designs had made sure enough of that—and while the ripples of the Binding's destruction spelled doom for that enchantment, it was simpler, and so far more stable.  But that working did not draw its power to Therelon, and so it mattered only insofar as its departure was impeded.

[i]And so I must walk.[/i]