Twain ducked through groves of trees and danced around larger trunks, throwing himself through the most tangled routes around. His wet pants slapped around his ankles, and his wet shirt and cloak dragged at his shoulders. John charged after him, then let out a groan and backed away, forced to choose another route.

“Guards! Guards!” John shouted.

Ah, shit. Twain wrinkled his nose.

Darting from thicket to thicket, Twain staggered and tripped over a root. He flew forward and caught himself against a tree, pushed off, and ran again. His breath came short, shorter than he was used to. What was that about sleeping for months at a time, and how I wasn’t going to do it ever again?

“You can’t outrun him,” Xenozar offered helpfully. He glanced over his shoulder at John, blond hair streaming behind him as he glided along. “I wouldn’t bet on you.”

“I know, thanks.” Twain pushed his way through a hanging shroud of brambles. Thorns bit at his hands and tore at his arms.

“If you had your magic…” Xenozar smiled, hovering along. He passed through the brambles, unharmed and unbothered.

“Shut up.”

Xenozar blinked out of existence.

Twain surged ahead. Sunlight poured through the trees ahead, an open space in the sky above. A gap in the brambles, shit! I’ll have to sprint through.

He burst into a clearing. Sun beamed down, early dawn light reflecting off the dew on the tips of the waist-high grasses. A gentle wind blew, and the grasses swayed.

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Twain drew to a halt. He stared, wide-eyed.

In the middle of the clearing stood a pale woman. Dark hair hung past her shoulders. Scars twisted across her hands, the only flesh visible past her uniform jacket and dark, tight pants. Behind her stood the largest wolf he’d ever seen, bristling in gray, white, and black. It lowered its head and nuzzled her on the shoulder, big eyes compassionate.

“Hello, Mouse,” Brittany greeted him, lifting her hand to pat Clarita on the muzzle.

“You… how…”

She laughed. “Sabelyn can maneuver how she likes, but she forgot: we princesses can maneuver right back.”

John burst out behind Twain and charged at him.

Clarita snagged Brittany by the back of her jacket and, with a practiced toss, threw her onto her back. Brittany hunkered low and grabbed tight onto Clarita’s fur.

Twain ran at them, reaching out desperately. Hoofbeats thundered in his ears, so close they shook the ground underfoot.

Brittany reached out to him. Their hands met.

He plopped onto Clarita behind him. His legs began to slip. He grabbed, but found nothing to grab. Twain slid sideways.

“Fur, grab her fur! She doesn’t feel it.”

Clarita rushed past the rotting horse, growling and feinting at tis neck as she passed. The horse balked and nearly threw John. Twain, nearly thrown by the feint, gripped tight to her fur and managed to catch himself before he fell all the way off.

Shadows passed overhead. Skeleton riders perched atop giant bats. They swooped through the dawn light, arcing through the light mist of blight. Some held bows, but with him so close to Brittany, none dared loose arrows.

Those must be the guards. Twain sucked in a breath and bit his lip. How am I supposed to get away from them? Rough terrain won’t do anything if they can fly.

They bounded away into the forest, leaving John far behind. As he fell back, Brittany sat up and started taking off her coat. She nodded at him. “You do yours, too.”

“Uh, I…” Twain glanced down at Clarita. Clarita glared back over her shoulder, showing him just a hint of fang. She’ll kill me.

Brittany rolled her eyes. “Your coat, you pervert. C’mon, let’s swap.”