The wolf goes down, the officer's shouting, and Myr's --

Something's happening to Myr.

There's magic all about them, terrifyingly close, but it whirls with the wardens in a space outside her immediate concern: Too fast, too slow; too easily-dismissed beside the black sheen of ichor.

(Beside the still rigidity of Myr,)

"Hey," She croaks, and can't say whether it's the chaos of the scene or something else that sounds her voice distant.

Her bad arm snakes out (don't be wrong, don't be wrong) to wrap about his, the necessity of reach dragging her close. Her side heaves, expression slack as she presses against him.

Maker, let this be over.

(Maker, don't let him have gone wrong,)