Bram nodded shortly and resumed his sprint.

True turned on his boot and strode to his tent.

By the time he arrived, he saw it had been struck, and Farah, dressed and cloaked, ready to ride, was standing by her mount, Regina, stroking her neck, talking to Helga.

He went direct to her, but she noted him before his arrival, and he noted she did not miss the expression on his face.

“Caro,” she whispered. “What more could have happened?”

They had lost Ophelia to the veil in the night.

Now he was too far away to make certain they would not lose Elena and Cassius in the day.

And this knowledge that his friends were in danger and he was too far away to help was eating him from the inside.

“We’ve had a message. If the war has not already begun, it will soon. You need to return to the Thicket,” he told her.

She dropped her hands from her horse and turned to fully face him.

“True,” she said softly.

“You will make haste. Wallace and Luther will be your guard.”

“I go with you.”

For a moment, he was thrown.

“You can’t ride into battle with me, Farah.”

“I can’t leave you,” she returned.

“You don’t know of what you speak,” he shot back. “Airen is now dangerous. We ride intent to engage and thus now are officially the enemy. We are too far away from the Bay to get you to Cassius’s stronghold safely, and regardless, that detour would take time we do not have. Thus, I need you home immediately.”

“I cannot leave you.”

“Farah, you cannot go,” he clipped.

“I can be of help. My magic—”

“You can barely control your magic,” he gritted, his legendary patience waning.

For reason.

He needed her on her horse.

He needed to know she was headed to safety.

And he needed to get to their friends.

She looked to Helga and something passed between them he would find in Farah’s next words that he did not like.

For she lifted her chin, straightened her spine and decreed, “I ride with my husband.”

“I will never, not ever, order you to do something, or forbid you from doing something,” he retorted. “Except in times like this.”

“I ride with my husband,” she repeated.

“Gods dammit, Farah,” he bit.

“I ride,” she lifted her hands and swept them to her side, and with them up came the fallen leaves all around. They formed a funnel about them with a wind that whipped her cloak, his mantle, and both their hair. This, before she finished, “With my husband!”

For the first time in their marriage…

Nay.

For the first time of their acquaintance, True Axelsson, King of Wodell, and Farah Magos Axelsson, Queen of Wodell, stood staring at each other, locked in a battle of wills.

“True!” a voice could be heard through the wind and angry rustling of leaves that swirled about he and his wife’s bodies. It was Wallace. “We don’t have time for this.”