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“We’ll bring Dorian,” you say.

You could all go round and round for hours about who’s the more powerful mage or the more valuable person to protect or the more useful person at headquarters—but what can’t be argued is the fact that Dorian is practically vibrating out of his skin. It’s clear he needs a change of scenery. Mae will have to hold the fort here.

“All right,” says Mae. “But don’t come crying to me if you all come back dead.”

Dorian takes a moment to don his own armor—something he achieves surprisingly fast given the number of straps and buckles that adorn it. It would certainly be difficult for an enemy to remove it quickly, but you suspect it would be equally difficult for Dorian. You stifle a grin at the prospect of a frustrated Dorian tangled in his own gear and make a mental note to share the image with Tarquin later. It seems like the kind of thing he’d appreciate.

When Dorian has buckled his last buckle and slung his staff over his shoulder, you head out into the night.

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