He couldn't believe it.
Especially not after realizing that twenty-five years was only the average patience of the other races. That wasn't even the limit.
Because in truth, the elves had once secluded themselves for more than one hundred fifty years.
One. Hundred. Fifty.
Screw dignity—Riley, the fragile human aide, collapsed onto the floor as the weight of that number pummeled him into despair.
The immediate thought in his mind, after missing his family, wasn't lofty or noble. It wasn't about history or legacy or duty.
It was: I could've just robbed a bank instead.
Because honestly, considering the "punishment" of this investigation—where he was really just assisting—he could've at least struck it rich if he'd chosen a life of crime.
At least prison came with guaranteed meals and visiting hours. His family could've dropped by with care packages. But here? Even if his family wanted to visit, they wouldn't get within miles of the territory.
