Run.

Persephone couldn't say whether the word had been uttered aloud or merely coursed through every cell in her body, but she felt it in the imperative, a command she could not have kept from her feet even if she had tried. It should have been easy, at worst doing nothing at all. But now Orwell was gone and the sky was raining blood.

She stumbled, feet tangling in her sodden skirts, as she made her way down the knoll, not looking back. It was the coward's way, Persy would think later—but right now was a time for fight or flight.

She had never expected to choose the latter.

As her boots touched down upon level ground once again, the red downpour eased, allowing her to see the light of the full moon once again. Even finally clear of whatever ancient enchantments had prevented her from apparating, the witch did not dare do so now with the frantic energy coursing through her.

Persy collapsed into the grass, letting out an anguished cry into her hands.