Avad was floating in a black void of ache, wincing at the occasional flickers of light that shot through his unconscious state. His overtaxed mind was knitting itself back together, the æther in the air around him slowly filtering into his spirit. Finally, with a soft groan, he opened his eyes and found himself looking at the underside of a what seemed to be a blanket. Though his instincts told him to shove it to the side, his logical mind won out; he was now a fugitive from his dearest companion, and had no idea where he was. For all he knew by the bumping and jolting, he could've be in an executioner's wagon right then. Instead, slowly lifting a corner to peek underneath it, he squinted into the moonlight in an attempt to grasp his bearings.

He seemed to be was lying on the bed of a cart rattling down the road. Lying beside him was the princess, and in the dim half-light of the night sky, he mouthed at her, [i]where are we?[/i] The last thing he remembered was casting a six-span bolt of lightning, then the sensation of falling. His temples still ached, though less so from before, and letting a bit of magic drip through him, he found that his fingertip lit up with the bead of magic used in drawing glyphs, faintly illuminating the blanket's interior with the dimmest of dim gray glows, without making his head feel fit to burst.

He suddenly became painfully aware that he was still wearing the official robes of a High Battlemage and hissed softly in displeasure at the realization that it would be dangerous for him to show off the position he worked so hard for. Not only that, but free inn rooms were a thing of the past. He began to regret giving Sergei three gold crowns.