"What a surprise. I can't say I expected you, of all people, to come seeking my help, Adelphas."
Icilia was reclined on a patch of grass, eyeing the proud magus before her. He was bruised and wounded all over, with blood streaks scattered across his otherwise refined garb. Despite his injuries, he strived to maintain regal bearing and poise.
His meek-looking blond companion, Phaedro, dragged the limp Pellio and Gessius on his back.
"I see you've found your match. How was your little scuffle with Sethre?"
"You know him?" Adelphas frowned.
"Contrary to all expectations, this poor wench is an easily scared weakling," Icilia spoke derogatorily of herself without a hint of shame. "Weaklings are incentivized to gather as much information about the strong as possible, for survival is our only prize, and we can leave nothing to fate."
