I would like to establish, before the inevitable tribunal of future historians, that my initial reaction to the sight of the King-Class mage striding through the dust was perfectly rational. I screamed for us to run.
Yes, screamed. Not the noble bellow of a commander rallying his troops, but the unrefined sound of a man who very much values his skin and has no shame admitting it. My voice cracked in the register of a choir boy pushed too hard on his first hymn, arms flailing in instinctive desperation.
"Run!" I shouted, pointing frantically at the shadow advancing through the haze. "Scatter, flee, sprint, scamper, gallop—I don't care what verb you pick so long as it means moving away from him!"
But before panic could carry me further, Salem silenced me.
Not with mockery, nor with the sharp edge of his wit, but with a single word.
"Enough."
It was said so quietly, yet with such finality, that the rest of my scream died in my throat like a candle snuffed by unseen fingers.
