Egon stood in the flickering shadows of a collapsed archway, his eyes fixed on the vertical battle unfolding in the heavens. The air around him was a vortex of dust and terror, but he remained a statue of cold intent.
He could feel Hilga's strain. It was a physical ache in his own chest, a sympathetic resonance between his darkness and her light. He saw the Guardian's scythe descend, a sliver of the void that threatened to snip the thread of her existence, and his hand instinctively twitched toward the hilt of the Chaos Devourer.
"Husband, we have to help her," Vienna whispered, her voice trembling as she stood at his shoulder.
"She's losing. That thing. it's too much for her alone."
Egon did not look at her. His gaze was locked on the golden spark that was Hilga.
