Behind them, Eron Solandris spilled out of the tent.
"Get Ashenvale. NOW." He hurled the command at his men, and twenty-odd Solandris soldiers broke into a grid sweep, boots hammering the frozen mud in a fan of practiced, pointless violence.
Kael ran.
He ran the way a man runs when he has a glowing woman tucked under one arm while her father's Alpha commands tried to yank her backwards. The pair of them moved through Diplomat Row like a lit torch dragged through a fireworks warehouse.
They blew past a dice game mid-throw. Six lords on their knees in the mud, a fortune in gold between them, and every last one of them looked up at the exact wrong second to watch a glowing wolf princess get carried past by a dragon.
"Sixes," Kael called over his shoulder without breaking stride. "Trust me. I've got a feeling."
Guinevere's body jolted in his arms as her father's command hauled at her hips. "Kael, my legs keep trying to go the other way."
