Suddenly he knows. Quilyan and Kaj's cries reaches his ears, enters their funnel, travels to his brain, and in that moment he knows. He knows that he will die. He can't even claim strength on his side anymore. The magic feeds him, yes, it makes him grow, it makes him recover, it makes him healthy, but just like every magic it saps his strength. So while he feeds himself, he also grows weary, and he has expended himself beyond his means. He has reached out one too many times, and even now as he keeps his hold on the mind of the women, he feels the underworld opening up to meet him and he does something he has not done since he was a foal. He quivers.

Flaring his wings, though useless in this tiny environment, he decides he will not go down without a fight. He will take every. Single. One of them. Down with him, if he can take them; though somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he cannot.

Kaj comes first and, since his hooves cannot find purchase on the ground despite their mad flailing, he take the full brunt of the attack. Hooves meet his knee, sending his forelimb down to the ground and his bond on the mares' minds is broken, lost. Then Kaj's teeth meet his neck, aim just off for his fall, but viciously tearing a chunk of flesh. His opponent is a wolf, no horse, and the monster makes a feeble attempt to infiltrate the mind of the vicious golden warrior. But if the effort works at all, it is weak, incredibly weak. He accentuates it with a bite of his own, trying to sink his teeth into Kaj's chest. And before he has a chance to fall he is a ragdoll, thrown to the side by the vicious shoulder thrust. Even the wing beats him, as if to say he can do nothing but accept his fate.

Two threats. You will die. They mingle, overlap, set upon one another. He is nothing but a broken body now, and Quilyan nearly seals his fate. Four hooves meet his side, finishing the job that Kaj started. He is battered into the glass wall, head striking rock, the magma roaring behind him symbolic of his fate in hell. He feels his grip on consciousness fading, his moments of reality walking away from him, his body bleeding and bruised. He is nothing but a pack of meat now that breathes, just slightly. “The butterfly has been replaced with a viper, who dares to strike with the mercy like the flames of hell. The fears will not leave, though, and your porcelian dolls are shattered far beyond repair - no magic can piece such torment as which floods their minds. May your pain eat at your soul for eternity.” He whispers out one last line of eternal hatred before falling completely unconscious. There is only one thing left to do.

One final strike to the head will kill him, an easy target, immobile like a child on the ground. He has bled enough for all of them this day and his body has been mangled, even in the short altercation. The warriors have done a fine job and he has failed. It is why he goes to hell now. Where he belongs.