The sky continued to darken as Hell descended upon the mortal realm. 

The gates that guarded the paths of the dead, the stoic watchers that kept the spirits of the lost confined to their place beneath the earth; it was as if they had been breached. As the burning blackness filled the atmosphere, Llewelyn envisioned ghosts screeching and clawing their way forth, spilling out into the world that they had been denied. Envious and enraged, they would encroach upon the living planet, ripping asunder the fragile balance that governed the universe. 

And she was powerless to stop it. 

How wretched and weak she must have looked then, a defenseless maiden, eyes wide and fearful. She was a pantomime of a woman clutching her pearls in horror and in awe at the wrath of some unknown god. Immobilized and silent, the courtier distantly felt some part of her rail against the rigidity of her form, at the lack of fight within her breath. You will die here, mourned that piece of her heart, the rebellious shadow of her youth, You will die without a whisper, cowardice and failure gracing the steps you didn’t take. 

Llewelyn found that she did not - could not - argue with herself in that. The crowned femme was faced with the reality of her mortality, the truth of her own fragility; there would be no waspish quip, no backhanded compliment that could defeat the roaring cloud of death that was roiling it’s way toward her stillness. Even her own whispering jewels, their blood red hue more an omen now than a decoration, had gone silent before their imminent destruction. 

And yet...

A mare dressed in quicksilver and regal bearing filled Llewelyn’s view, the stranger’s mercury eyes filled with mourning and purpose. She ordered the Lady to move, her voice rough, and the muscled shoulder that jostled against her own was rougher still. It was the contact, however, that broke Llewelyn’s trance. Wordlessly, she nodded at the newcomer, some portion of her awareness noticing the sand and sweat smell of the woman, the trail-hardened look of her. Had she any other choice, the maiden may have second guessed the decision to run alongside the silver traveler; but the world was ending and etiquette stood low on the courtier’s list of priorities. 

So she followed the stranger, emerald cloak streaming from her thin shoulders like a flag. How far would they have to run? Would Delumine evacuate? Where would they even go? Llewelyn didn’t know of any navy established by either of the four kingdoms, and she doubted that the gods would have much to do with any sort of escape efforts - they were Novus’ deities, would they even have their godlike status outside of their borders?

Would they risk losing the entire population to keep their power in the eyes of mortals?

The pair continued to run; North, then Northwest, and the shadow of the Viride Forest loomed before them in the near distance. Llewelyn wondered what sort of shelter could be found there, or if the embers that rained from the heavens would simply ignite the forest and send the two mares plummeting into a burning fate. 

“When do we stop?” She huffed, feeling herself begin to flag in the face of the other mare’s stamina, “What’s happening?” Her thoughts drifted to Mateo, to her best friend and that brilliant smile of his. What would she do if he had been harmed? Who would keep her steady? Who would she even be without his mischief and laughter?

When she had woke that day, fear had been somewhat of a commodity, something to toy with and tease at; something she had never truly experienced. Now, as she galloped alongside a stranger, her pristine hooves and legs dulled and darkened by muddy snow, her every moment was defined by fear. Her impression of the world had changed, that meticulously adjusted reality that Llewelyn had built around herself was quaking, tiny splinters forming at the edges and threatening to shatter completely. 

What was happening?