She had to run.

Marigold’s paws unstuck from the ground as she broke away, and before she knew it, she was doing just that: running.

She fled from the room, through the doors, through the corridors, through the other trainees, until she was out of the building. She heard Maraude shouting, but she wasn’t thinking enough to process it through the roar of blood in her ears.

Her surroundings were a panicked blur, and she just barely had enough of her senses left to avoid the obstacles in her path as she went hurtling past, her heart thumping against her chest so hard that it felt like it might even escape her chest—and somehow, Maraude was still at her tail, ready to snap her jaws closed around the flesh of Marigold’s tail at any moment.

She leapt along through the falling leaves, trying to run faster—and with the orange-flecked leaves and the adrenaline pounding through her, it felt like her whole world was burning.

She had to run—run from the fires she helped create—run from the blood that she’d almost drawn—run from her stupidity— the heat burned at her back, making her go faster, faster, faster, until there was no fuel left to burn—

And suddenly, she found herself skidding to a stop.

The Grim Citadel stretched its grand towers above her, locking her out from the places she could have hidden, and her heart only pounded harder; it seemed to echo in her chest like a metal ball in a shaken birdcage— louder than the thudding footsteps of her pursuer, louder than her mind, louder than life itself—

She wasn’t thinking, she just found herself climbing up the stony walls, clawing her way to safety. She could hear Maraude shouting, but she was growing distant—she could be safe, she could get away—

And, without looking at where she was going, her feet stepped forward to the air, letting her fall.

She fell, and fell, and fell, until she saw black.