Elayra smirked at his comment about the zombies. “Good to know you have that sense!” She glanced to the treeline as a bush rustled. Her body tensed, ready to stand, and her hand went to her the hilt of her sword.
	From the underbrush, she saw a trio of tiny chicken-like feet a second before they dashed away.
	Content it wasn’t anything harmless—even bloodthirsty prey knew to run from a battle it couldn’t win—she relaxed slightly.
	Ghent’s voice drew her attention back to him. She eyed him suspiciously at his thanks. She didn’t much care for the look in his eyes. She raised her brows, waiting for him to return her jibes, but instead, his words cut off, his face twisting in terror.
	Heart pounding in her throat, Elayra drew her saber as she sprung to her feet before Ghent’s shout fully left his lips. If a shadowmire had found them, then so, too, had the Red Queen.
	Inwardly cursing herself for not noticing approaching danger, she spun around and stepped from the tree. She searched frantically for the feline monsters or their telltale shadows, ready to fight or flee for their lives. Or both. If nothing else, she had to keep the Sorceress from getting Ghent. As much as she hated admitting it, his magic was their best chance at bringing the Crimson Rule to an end.
	But she saw nothing out of place. Then, she heard Ghent’s laughter. Slowly, realization dawned on her. There was no danger.
	A prank. He’d played a sick, twisted version of a prank.
	Heat rose through Elayra’s chest. Her breaths hissed between grit teeth. Her hand tightened on her sword, the other clenching at her side.
	Elayra spun back around and barreled into the still guffawing Ghent. Using her weight and momentum, she shoved his back to the ground with a hand at his chest, her sword pressing against his throat. She transferred her free hand to the grass behind him to keep from falling with him. She leaned over him, knees on either side of his body. 
	“You think that’s [i]funny?[/i]” she growled through her teeth, the words coming out breathlessly in her rage. Her gray eyes burned with her fury. “You think our [i]lives[/i] are something to joke around with?” She pressed the sharp edge of the blade harder against him, not caring whether or not it broke skin. It took every ounce of willpower to not put an end to him then and there. 
	Instead, she bent her arm so her face came within inches of his. “You’re a [i]disgrace,[/i] you wretched, good-for-nothing—” Instead of finishing, she cut herself off with a heated shout. Gritting her teeth, she bent her head then pulled away before she could do something she’d regret.
	She stepped away from him. Incapable of standing to look at him, she turned her back. She tried to take a few breaths to calm herself, but it did little to quell her anger. She glanced down to the sword in her hand.
	“Unsheathe your staff,” she growled as she faced back toward Ghent.