Blackfeather Woods You were both born to be kings

It was done. Power shifted without blood, and Potema released her breath. That matter was dealt with now. She turned to her brother Cicero, who had slumped against a tree stump, too weak to stand on his own. The sight clutched her heart with sharp talons and Potema quickly moved to his side, quickly forgetting about Malice and Burke and the bastards. Politics was over; it was never her strong suit anyway. She spoke what she thought, without thinking about if it made sense or not. She could never dance with words very well; she had two left feet.

But she was a healer by trade. And this was within her realm. Potema urged Cicero to his feet, nudging the mixmatched skeleton to the nearest tunnel entrance. He was too frail to simply jump right back onto his feet with the next meal he had. Whatever he had done to himself before the famine was taking its toll on him now as well. He needed medical attention as much as he needed food. And Potema could provide at least one of those things.

Exit Potema?