Percival's eyes widened. He wasn't going to waste a single second trying to reason with a grieving, heavily armed Elven mother. He simply turned around and bolted.
"Wind Guard! Bring me his head!" Eristasia shrieked, her voice tearing through the wind.
The massive griffin let out an ear-splitting screech, its wings beating downward with the force of a localized hurricane.
Stalls shattered, crates of exotic fruits and beast feed exploded into splinters, and the screaming citizens of Crimson City were thrown flat against the muddy cobblestones.
Percival threw his body sideways just as three razor-sharp lances of concentrated wind magic gouged craters into the exact spot he had been standing.
He hit the ground rolling, his cloak billowing around him, and immediately exploded into a sprint down the chaotic, terrified market alleyway.
"Do not let him escape!" the Elven commander, Theodore, roared from the rooftops. "Form the net!"
