Laughter rang through the happy little lawn area. Calli was turning cartwheels in a wide circle pattern, bright blue butterflies trailing in her wake. Streak chased the butterflies, giving the effect of a little parade, or maybe something like one of the circus acts. Hunter was sprawled on his stomach, having just turned a cartwheel of his own. He'd slipped on something – a wet patch in the grass. But that was okay, no worries. There was music coming from somewhere.

"Why can't it be like this all the time?" The question was more whimsy than frustration. The witch's simple happiness had caught on and the young galdor refused to let anything dim the moment's joy. The student had decided to join the circus after all. He had stolen Calli away for a little private celebration and...

And then he looked down.

The wet patch in the grass was a puddle of blood. It gushed from a bullet hole in his forearm. Suddenly the pleasant wind died down and the clearing became hot, unbearably hot. Looking up from the wound, Hunter caught sight of a great blazing ball of fire. It was as if the sun had suddenly plummeted straight down. In an instant, the butterflies became fossils. Streak howled defiantly before the flames hit. The blaze blinded Hunter as the pain from his injury had not.

White-heat. Blinding. Then darkness.

"I trusted you!"
Hunter felt an impact; his head was flung to one side. He couldn't feel the actual contact. Just a pulling sensation and the sound of brittle tissue breaking away from his face. Tristaan's wrath hurt more than any blow.
"Ye laoso jent. Toft yer way into my family. Y'should have protected her."

Hunter tried to speak. To apologize. He moved his mouth, but there was only a wet, wheezing and the sound of something cracking.

Dr. Mottoni's coarse laughter boomed in the background, interspersed with bouts of coughing.
"Stupid golly. I told you to get some military training."
Searing pain shot through Hunter's abdomen.
"Oops. No bullet there."
"Ahahahahahahahahahaha!"

Hunter woke with a start, hyperventilating. The sheets were soaked as were his bedclothes. He couldn't move, couldn't catch his breath. He tried to tell himself it was just a dream, but the fear gripped him too tightly.

Eventually, he pulled himself together enough to light the bedside lamp. He washed his face in the basin and then looked at the mess of his bedclothes. There was an alarming red stain in addition to the perspiration. He was bleeding from his stomach and, yes, there was blood on his hands. He had clawed himself with his nails with enough force to break the skin.

The boy washed and bandaged the wounds and gathered his laundry into a basket to let the mattress air out. Later, when he had stopped sobbing and his eyes were painfully dry, he went to visit Streak in the kennels. It was almost time for their morning run anyway.