Someone, running in a different direction than he, slams into the back of him. Painful, the jolt where knees hit firm ground and palms scrape on stone.

There is no clear way to go. No obvious place to hide. For a moment, Florent huddles in place. Dirt and soot cling, now, to the silken nightshirt he is wearing. His anchor shard flares in his palm as if in response to his own sense of brimming panic. He watches, without really reacting beyond mute shock, as a steady gout of flame scorches across the campsite, and he watches the fire engulf a pair of fleeing bodies, and light up some carts, and incinerate half-collapsed tents, and then with a gust of wind that buffets the smoke in new directions and lifts of the ash and dust from the ground, the winged creature above pulls itself back out of sight.

There is, also, the sound of galloping. Screams. Riders tearing through the campsite. Florent laces his hands over the top of his own head, curling up where he kneels to make himself small, and the slightly hysterical thought that soon someone will find him and put a sword through his back doesn't compel him to move. It seems less scary than the prospect of attempting to run.

A little like a nightmare, you hope it will be over soon.