Micha'el pushed himself to his feet, every muscle trembling from the impact. His lungs burned as relief washed over him—he'd just cheated death at the White Fang's claws. Gasping, he spun around, searching for whoever had conjured that last-second barrier. But before he could piece it together, a thunderous command sliced through the air:
"Micha'el! Move! Now!"
He blinked up to see Mathes, the Queen's right hand, striding forward on the forest floor with his magical staff in his hand. Colorful stones along his silver runic armor glowed like molten moonlight. In that instant, Micha'el's awe turned to terror: Mathes wasn't some ordinary Goldhair scout—this was royal blood in battle, come at the Queen's command.
Before Micha'el could second-guess, Mathes swept his arm. The gale dome collapsed inward, propelling Micha'el to the nearest low branch. Without pause, he vaulted toward the undergrowth for a quick cover and respite.
