[His exhale is slow at that. Yes, he can see it, too. He remembers this fight well enough. Even as it starts to draw to what he knows is its inevitable end, when the break between the waves has grown so great that he has time to pause and think out in the deadlands left behind from the carnage.]

They don't need a champion. [A quiet correction.] They just need each other.

If I can help make sure they can choose what way they wish to trace their lives, without something else guiding their hand without their direct request, then I can weather plenty of tiresome nights.

[It's as that reflection of Solomon retreats, out onto the valley, that he suddenly vanishes in a brilliant array. Starting from the point of his departure and spreading outward, the field blossoms in shades of green and vibrant red and deep, dark blues, of pinks and yellows - plants not of the human realm, but of somewhere else entirely, spreading out on the field of death like water finding it's way through a crack and soaking in.

Solomon hums at the sight, nostalgic, even as the colors start to fade, whiting out to snowy surroundings in swirls of color.]

They call this Victory Day in their kingdom. The day that the sorcerer, who fought seven days and nights, suddenly vanished without a trace.