Vell stepped forward, each movement drawn out as if he were measuring his strength with every step.
The linen wrapped tightly around his body shifted with the motion.
Despite the strain, he drew himself upright and inclined his head in a low, graceful bow.
His posture was dignified, ceremonial even.
"I offer my services to the United Peoples of Elvenkind, or rather what remains of it."
He straightened, and his eyes passed over the room.
"But before I can do that properly, I need to send these people home. They do not belong here, and this place was never meant to shelter so many."
He turned to the gathered survivors.
They were weary, still shaken. They needed their homes.
A few turned to meet his gaze, but many did not. Some were still trying to make sense of their surroundings, trying to piece together the very recent past and why they had ended up here.
"It may take some time," Vell added. "I would be lying if I said I felt strong enough to do it all at once. In truth, I am tired. Faint, even. But it must be done. If there are any among you with knowledge of teleportation or portalcraft, I ask that you come forward."
A few heads turned at his request.
Then, slowly, an elven woman stepped forward from the edge of the gathering. Her robes bore gold marks of one of the lesser eleven magical colleges, symbols Vell recognized.
"I can assist you," she said. "I'm trained for long-range transport. I can manage two, maybe three people at a time."
Another voice followed hers, gruff and low.
"I can help too," said a dwarven man with silver tattoos curling around his arms. "I work with portals. It takes longer to set them up, but once the anchors are placed, they can be redirected with less strain. It should speed things along."
More followed. Not many, five in total, raised their hands to offer their skill. It was a small number, but it would be enough.
Vell inclined his head to them.
"Thank you," he said. "We will begin with those who are farthest from their homes."
The mages began preparing at once. Some withdrew chalk or rune stones. Others opened tattered spellbooks and began tracing sigils into the air.
Vell turned then toward the Lord Chancellor and the Kalandir, who stood behind him in silence.
"I will offer what help I can," Vell said. "I am not one of you; we're close enough to be called friends. And I know how long it takes for your wheels to turn."
He waited for a response, but none came.
Their silence wasn't one of arrogance, he thought, but of inertia. As if they had not yet decided if they would act or simply remain exactly where they were.
"But I will not do everything. There are limits to what I'll do." He looked to Sonder for a moment. "Simply said, I will not kill in your name. That should be reasonable, wouldn't it? If you want blood, then spill it yourself."
The Chancellor's eyes met his, and then he nodded, just once. A flicker of agreement, or perhaps simple understanding.