Pride.
It was an emotion felt by all. Every sentient being, no matter their race or origin, carried it in some form, be it quiet self worth or inflated ego.
Some pride came from simple dignity, the unwillingness to be cheated or disrespected. Other times, it stemmed from a belief of superiority, a conviction that one stood above all others.
But pride, like any emotion, could be broken.
And when broken, it gave birth to something else, dread, shame, fear.
Yet, to shatter pride, one had to be willing to get their hands dirty.
Most balked at that.
But Atticus had no such qualms.
Carius's hand trembled as he pushed himself off the ground. The truth was now clear, he knew exactly what Atticus was trying to do.
"You're wasting your time—"
But Atticus vanished again.
CRACK!
Another open handed slap exploded across his face, sending him tumbling once more. Dust erupted with each crash, stone shattered beneath his weight.
