Spike begged, his voice rising to a shriek.
"Take me away! Hide me in the slums! I'll be a beggar, a thief, anything! Just let me be a person! I don't want to be a hero on a pedestal! I just want to be Spike!"
Percieval looked toward the mountain peak, where the clouds of Tiamat were already beginning to swirl. He saw the silver masked servants emerging from the Great Hall to gather the final 142. He saw the cold, mechanical inevitability of it all.
"If I could carry you on my back across the sea, I would…"
Percieval whispered, pulling the boy into a sudden, fierce embrace.
"But the King's blood… it's a tether, Spike. A chain. You can't run from the fire, because the fire is already inside you. It's been there since the day you were sown."
The old Dragonguard's grip tightened slightly.
"But remember this… you are Spike. You're the boy who made an old man run until his lungs burned. The brat who hated that statue because he had too much life in him to stand still."
