Freja reached out and placed a comforting hand on her grandson's arm. "I understand your hesitation, my dear. But we cannot afford to ignore the possibility of a true threat, regardless of the messenger." Her eyes searched Aragon's face, imploring him to understand the gravity of the situation.
Aragon fell silent, his mind racing. He knew that his grandmother was right—they could not simply dismiss this warning, no matter the source. The memories of the desert battle still haunted him, and the thought of those relentless, undead creatures returning filled him with a sense of dread.
After a moment, Aragon straightened his shoulders and said, "I think I will go and investigate this matter further."
Freja's brows rose in surprise. "Are you sure, dear?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern.
Aragon nodded firmly. "I am. I'll take Elivira with me, and I'll be sure to come back safely."
Malaica asked, her voice guarded. "Should I come with you?"
