Faeline was bewildered as she watched Rhydian collapse at her front. Wh- she crouched beside him. Rhydian? Immediately, her thoughts went to the translocation—had they fallen from somewhere? Was he hurt? Without waiting a heartbeat, Faeline's gaze shifted all over her companion's limp frame, pressing the end of her snout against his flank and prodding him gently in search of any wounds or bruises.

Yet, she found none. Nothing swollen, nothing broken or hot to the touch. No blood, either, from what she could see and smell. A soft, quiet sigh left Faeline's nostrils. Oh, Rhydian... she said softly, nudging his withers with her forehead before settling by his side and tucking herself close to him. She could only assume that, but his point, this was psychological. After all, he'd experienced hell and she'd seen it—the spite on his partner's face, the disappearance of the two children, which she claimed to be from death.

No. No, Faeline didn't allow that. She gritted her teeth and scowled in vehemence and borderline anger. Who cares about that damned woman, the one who lacked the maturity to support her own husband, yet somehow has the sheer gall to abandon him at his lowest point? To insist on Aedric and Morriva's deaths, after Faeline had fought tooth and fucking nail to make sure they hadn't?

No! A low growl rumbled in her throat. Rhydian, she called. She wasn't sure if she could hear him or not, but hell, she didn't care. Get up. We're going to find your kids. There was no room in her stern cadence for argument—this was the tone that she'd always used with her own offspring, years ago.