At the courtyard of the majestic Grand Cathedral, the two soldiers of the Ghost Squad stared into the same dark abyss of death.
The battle had reached its grimmest nadir.
Dom lay broken among the smoldering ruins of marble pillars. His trusty greatsword was snapped in two—one half clutched tightly in his trembling right hand, while the other lay lost somewhere in the debris.
The mechanical exoskeletons on his legs were completely wrecked, reduced to bent, useless metal scaffolding digging into his calves. The blistering burns on his left arm still seeped wisps of smoke, a lingering reminder of his fiery ordeal. His breathing was heavy, rattling, and dangerously uneven.
