The road to Redwood didn't wait for dignity.
Neither did Viktor.
The first leap covered roughly half a mile.
Gwen knew this because she had excellent spatial awareness — it was an elven archer's baseline competency, the ability to read distance the way other people read text — and because she measured the gap between where they had been standing and where Viktor's boots hit the road next with the detached professional part of her brain that was still functioning.
The rest of her brain was screaming.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING—"
The second leap.
The ground dropped away beneath them like a stage floor pulled out mid-performance. The tree line blurred. The road below became a brown thread. The morning air hit her face with the sharp cold of genuine altitude, and Gwen's stomach expressed a unanimous and urgent opinion about this situation.
Thoom.
