Dorothea didn't respond for awhile. She rushed ahead, almost violently tackling her way through sticks and leaves. She had to control herself. How was she to lead a country if she couldn't even lead one person -- if she broke down so completely under pressure, so that she was willing to leave an innocent life behind? What kind of a person did that make her -- how was she any better than the Marshal?

"I owe you an apology," she said quietly, even while she moved ahead. She suppressed a thousand [i]but[/i]s -- but Sam was older than Dorothea was, but Dorothea was merely a cat, but she couldn't save someone six times her size -- because Dorothea was above criticism, because her father and Liam were counting on her to keep her head. "Please keep an eye out for danger. We need to find somewhere safe --"

She cut off when she noticed movement behind a tree just ahead. Dorothea's ears flattened, and she stopped suddenly in the leaves, but she didn't try to run away. It was clear -- painfully clear -- that running was and always had been the wrong answer. She sat down, and she raised her head high. She was royalty. She had to continue reminding herself of that.

The Marshal stepped out into their path. His armor was still gone, his sword was sheathed, his clothes were torn and spotted with blood -- he'd gotten a little too close to the Jockal's claws, but it was only a scrape. He stood quietly, and he first glared clear and steady at Sam, then lowered his eyes to the princess at his feet. He let out a breath, frowned, and shook his head. "Don't make me chase you. It's over."