Isle of the Dead

When Minoth left Amalthus on that grimly sunny day in 3562, having seen and heard enough (and perhaps far too much), he had no natural alternate place to go.

Yes, Blades were conditioned and moreover socialized to remain by their Drivers' sides. Even if he cast aside the fear of stigma, Minoth would have a hard time getting anyone to take him seriously, with his practically mythical status.

The idea of finding a new Driver did occur to him, because although it of course wasn't something Amalthus had actively discussed with a view to Minoth's benefit, the exact ramifications of the Flesh Eater transformation process as pertained to the Praetorium's use of Blades had been laid out: none of the expense nor risk of Overdrive Protocols, once the procedure was finalized, formalized, and free of complications.

If any Driver could use any Blade, then any Blade could use any Driver.

But what were the chances? There were no good men - or women, for that matter - in the circles Minoth might hope to travel in, now. While Indoline culture had never engendered the development of very much individual fiery personality, to Minoth's knowledge (there were zealots, and then there was zeal), the common people had been upright, consistent, certainly clean.

So Minoth traveled alone, from shadow to shadow. When Malos's sister Blade was awoken, Minoth eyed the conflict from afar, skeptical of what another man might do under the unwieldy aegis of such power.

Addam Origo.

Minoth was on Spessia when the refugees came, and when Amalthus subsequently bombed them out in the Architect's name and those of his children. So the pattern continued.

The savior, Addam Origo. The failure, Addam Origo.

The prince, Addam Origo. The farmer, Addam Origo.

The name stuck in Minoth's mind, as if it might have meant something, but when the Tornan refugees under Zettar went this way and Addam went that, Minoth just kept his distance. There might have been a chance to reconnect (or connect at all, for the first time) with some spark of humanity before Amalthus's dread Praetorial reign had begun, but now...?

Now his legacy was Gorts and tainted Common Blades, and the bygone Paragon of Torna dusting legions in the night.

If it's not you, it'll be someone else.

That's what Minoth had told himself, knowing he had no power to stop Amalthus then and there.

He didn't want power. In truth, without hope, Minoth desired as little as agency as possible. It hardly meant anything, now.

No one ever lacked for Minoth's disappearance, now, did they?

A miserable existence, all. Maybe Amalthus had been right. Minoth observed desolation from the shadows for another four and a half centuries, rarely even wondering what could have been.