Tiathe was back at her throne made of dried vines while she witnesses the battle unfolding before her. She sat crossed-legged and grinning as though she was the master and them were the slaves.
Oh, how I pity her, Ned thought wiping the blood from the scratches, perhaps a deep wound somewhere in his head (but he's got no time to check his status). The only anger Ned was feeling was the anger to whoever controls Tiathe.
Now? He pities her more than the anger.
Ned stood fair and square against Minron, who has gotten a lot stronger with the crystallized armor conjured by Tiathe and was given to him. With his twisted horn coated in golden clay, and aside from his eyes, no part of him Ned was able to find as his weaknesses.
Should he? Or should he not? But Ned chose not to produce the broken Butterfly. Abide by the rules, he thought.
