"The Queen of the elves," Roxanne replied calmly.
Leonhart glanced at Alariel at last, silver eyes sharp and assessing. Then a faint, almost lazy smirk curved his lips. "Well, dear Queen of the Elves," he said lightly, "I've fought them before. At the other port. They're weak."
Alariel stiffened. Her grip tightened on the air itself, magic instinctively gathering around her fingers. "Weak?" she echoed, incredulous. "Those creatures are immune to most magic, their hides thicker than steel. Entire cities in Aerthysia fell to them—"
"They were weak," Leonhart repeated, unbothered.
Roxanne cut in before the tension sharpened further. "They were weak because they stepped into our land," she said, eyes never leaving the distant horizon where dark shapes churned across the sea. "Kaelindor breaks them. Out there," she gestured toward the fire line she had drawn, "they'll be stronger. Closer to what they truly are."
