“Taeleia is suffering, too,” she said snippily when Fletcher pressed her about it one evening. “She has no energy to spare for me.”
“Maybe Taeleia doesn’t,” said Max. He sat next to her around the campfire the tribunal members had made in a nachtgarden. “But we have some elves to spare. One of them could escort you back to the safety of Korestrach or Elvinthrane.”
That was true, and Fletcher wished he’d thought of it sooner. Last week Taeleia’s battery of healer elves had joined the dwarven caravan.
“If you think I’m running away from this fight, Maxton, you’re delusional,” Seba retorted with a hint of her old fire. “Necrovar has taken everything from me. I don’t intend to stand aside while he destroys our empire, nor abandon my kingdom when it needs me.”
Max subsided, but it was clear
