Death.
Aven had practically shook hands with the grim more times than he could count, danced with the lady in grey, and dodged a scythe akin to a limbo stick, but one could only walk the line so many times before crossing. He stood, disembodied, watching his son cradle him, unable to say a word. Damn it... I've failed. He couldn't keep his promise to Hakon, not anymore. Was he truly a man of his word, to fall so easily, not to take even one of them with him?
No. Regret played cruel tricks on the likes of men, but he wouldn't fall prey to its wiles: he'd died as he'd lived, by his ideals. She was not evil, nor did she hold contempt in her eyes when she stabbed him: it was more akin to pity, an unspoken wish that life could be different. It was the same wish resounding from his boy's cries of sorrow, a desperate plea to the silent heavens for mercy that would never descend. 'It's not fair', Jace would say, 'He was a hero, he didn't deserve this!' Was he right? Aven never stopped to think whether he deserved his life before, his misfortunes, his magic, his corruption. The thought was harrowing, but then again, he'd also had so many blessings. Hakon, Elenoir, Jace: they'd lit up his life, made it worth living, however short. If he could go back and do everything again, he knew, in that moment, that he wouldn't change a thing.
Well, besides maybe a cheeky dodge of that sword.