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Daithi's reflex is immediate, staggering Fiona in a gust of willpower. He is still in the aftermath, if for a moment, aware of Brigham's voice though attention, unwavering, fixt upon the elven woman. His fingers twitch against his staff.

— then, tighten their grip of the weapon. His own expression darkens. "Get the trebuchet aimed," he shouts — to no one in particular among their companions — and takes aim of Fiona. The field erupts into storm: either elf, favoring the power of thunderlight.

Brigham turns his head (though his muscles protest the motion) as the Herald shouts, sees someone else- more capable than he, especially at the moment, move to aim the siege engine. He turns his full attentions to the two elves, backs stiffly away from the flicker of lightning, uncomfortably close after the strike moments before.

Though he does not falter nor lose focus, he feels a flicker of sadness, ever so briefly, thinking of Daithi's pleas. He takes no joy in fighting the Grand Enchanter, but imagines for the Herald, it is even less pleasant.

He calls upon the earth to damp Fiona's storm (and his own susceptibility), weaving the element so that it interfered with Daithi as little as possible, yet protected him— or at least, gave his best attempt to. There were other mages, Venatori now, one unfortunate enough to stumble across his glyph and finding themselves utterly without mana to cast. Brigham does not lay another glyph, mindful of his mana as the battle between Fiona and Daithi carries on.

The enchanter retains an advantage, a greater pool of mana, though the Herald is not alone, and the interference of his companions, stalling either comrade or magic, allows him to match the other elf in combat. Still, he is the first to exhaust mana: his fight, soon, given to the simplest spells amidst quick, evasive steps.

Fiona wears thin for such an opponent, though, and Daithi glimpses sapphire in a vial. He scrapes the remains of his mana into a final push, then, catching Fiona in close quarters. He strikes the vial from her grip. She, in turn, crushes his cheek against the shaft of her weapon — electrocutes his shoulder, sparks in her palm, forcing his own staff from his fingers.

He uses his opposite shoulder, then; the collision, sending either elf to the snow, Herald above enchanter, where the immediate fight is for control of Fiona's staff. Daithi grits his teeth, willing his grip tight, pressing the staff ever near Fiona's throat. — until she gives, hollow in expression, and for half a heart's moment, naive for all that he knows elsewise, ... Daithi is hopeful.

Instead: "make it quick, Herald."

He thinks to refuse her. — hasn't the time to save more than Haven's people, though, and murmurs "ir abelas," thrusting a shortblade through Fiona's neck. Her blood spills warm.

Mages are hardly trained to be combative, in the Circle - at least in Markham Circle, and Brigham is less than skilled with hand-to-hand with his own stave. He defends himself with spell then, when another mage assaults him, and though is victorious, he cannot give Daithi his undivided attention for a moment's time - to be expected, in battle. Brigham chides himself still when he takes note of the Herald's sapped mana, marked by such small magic. The spellbloom of regenerative mana he had created had withered, given to its last.

He pushes through the battle as the two elves grapple, ignoring his own hurts— the stun has worn away, finally, leaving only aching muscles. He turns with Daithi's staff in hand in time to watch the Herald's blade cut flesh. The Enchanter is quiet, then, watching the lifeblood of his Grand Enchanter pool. Somber, he offers his hand to pull Daithi up, and returns his staff. He rests his own staff into the crook of his shoulder so he might reach, cupping a hand to soothe the hurt of Daithi's cheek.

Daithi rises to his feet with a groan; the arm he offers Brigham is weak and sore for Fiona's magic. He grips his staff in his opposite palm, then, after mustering the strength to sheath his blade: unclean, still, with Fiona's blood.

He is otherwise silent through Brigham's attentions, save the roughness of his breath, and slow to respond.

The tide of Venatori and Red Templar has slowed, finally. Brigham judges, then, that he might use the last of his mana, and have time enough for a draught of lyrium should his spells be needed again urgently.

His grip on the Herald is gentle, strong just enough to support him. Hazel eyes flicker to find Daithi's, momentarily searching them for something— only to look away again. Magic, surely familiar by now, warms the hand that comes to settle against his cheek; a heal and a reassuring touch besides. Brigham lifts his gaze once more. "I am sorry, Your Worship," he murmurs soft, and sincere.

Daithi raises his gaze as Brigham speaks. — averts his attention, watching the man's robes, instead. He hums in answer. Then: "how's your mana?" he asks, avoiding the subject. Behind them, their companions use the lull to tend each other as well.

He watches Daithi for a moment, quiet too and thoughtful. His hand lingers for a moment perhaps longer than necessary, magic fading. His voice is gentle when he answers; "It will recover." It is exhausted for the moment, much like he suspects the Herald's is, and their other mage companions. The healer glances to the others; they will require tending, too, once they have a moment, but their need is not dire. Brigham's attentions remain then, perhaps selfishly, with the Herald. "How are your hurts?" he asks, soft.