Bella is halfway to pouncing in an instant. She's risen to one knee before she even notices her response, and on the hand she isn't using to support Redana her claws are extended on each of her curled and straining fingers. All of her fur is bristling horribly and her tail is snapped back so straight it hurts. Would that the gods had granted her the power to hide her own agitation, but alas, they played no role in her creation at all. A scowl darkens her features as she clenches her sharp teeth tight against one another, powerless to keep the low growl out of her throat. Her eyes shine with lethal golden light, locked on Jas'o for the first time.

But then her gaze slips off of his chiseled form (there is a permanent stink of thunderbolts that will cling to him for the rest of forever. It is worse by half than being next to the Nemean) and heroically handsome face to the quivering fingers already reaching for his next deadly shot. Her heart catches in her chest. She turns her head, sight sliding downward, and beholds Princess Epistia properly for the first time. 

Thunderbolts are awful weapons. Of all the tools humans have been granted to kill with, they may well be the worst. There's no blood spurting from that wound, but it must be spilling all over her insides. She reeks of burning skin and fur, and...ugh. Just look at the way she twitches. Lying there, calm as death, until the spark sets her abdomen to spasming, convulsing, arcing through her skeleton and bending her spine until surely it must break? It'd be a kindness to tear out her throat. 

The corner of Bella's eye grows wet with tears. She slides smoothly to her feet, lifting Redana up by the butt until she can wrap her arms around Bella's neck and gingerly supporting her wounded legs with her previously free hand. With nothing to stop her tear, she has to suffer to let it roll slowly down her cheek and dangle from her chin until it finally, mercifully drops onto her Princess' stomach. She draws herself to full height with deeply practiced poise and restraint, her prizes from a lifetime's worth of lessons and floggings. 

"No, King," her voice is as polite and level as it is in almost all of Redana's memories, "Her Highness' choice is not for you to make. Not you, not the Admiral, and not any other traitor to the throne."

The princess detests blood. And she hates foul play even more. But surely she'll understand just this once? Bella digs her heel into the ground and spins sharply, raking her other foot across the ground before kicking in a wide and vicious arc. If the debris here is more dangerous than usual, Jas'o has only himself to blame: bits of cracked stone, fragments of a hoplite's shield and shards of broken scythe, and a bit of mud besides all spray indiscriminately toward the King's face. Maybe it'll be enough to make him bleed. She can only wish the Ceronian pup's last gasp would be enough to blind him. But all she needs is one small flinch, and for Jas'o to shut his eyes. 

She turns and runs deeper into the city without a moment's hesitation, her boots squeaking and sliding across the rain slicked stone streets. Hers is a pedigree of a champion. Her stride won her the laurel wreath in the Olympic Games her princess missed. Every rough step forward is another fresh explosion of momentum that can't help but jostle her charge violently, but speed is more important than comfort. She darts agilely first this way and that, and disappears around a corner into an alleyway. 

"I promise Milady," she breathes in between steps, "I promise I'll keep you safe."