The great head turned my way and began to move, and I did the only intelligent thing left to a man with an empty well and two fingers gone to ash.
I ran like a coward.
There's a version of this where I plant my feet and it means something. That version ends with me folded into a stomach the size of a cathedral, so I left it for braver men and worse tacticians, put the last thin thread of Ethereal Grace into my legs, and went.
Grace took the weight out of my body, which was the only reason my legs agreed to work at all. It didn't cost much.
That was the whole point of it now, that and Feather Step, the two cheapest things I owned, because cheap was the only currency I had left.
Everything grand in my repertoire needed a well I had scraped down past its floor an hour ago.
So I fled on the small tricks, the ones I'd once thought beneath me, and I have never in my life been so grateful for anything I used to look down on.
