Ianthe was quite the social tactician, but damn, Peony was bad at following direction.

Her landing wasn't quite as elegant as her first round of attack. The challenge with being so light was that it was extremely easy to throw her. Peony crash landed and crumpled against a nearby vendor's stall. In six seconds she was forcing herself to her feet once again, hands lit with a readied spell, ready to jump into the breach once again.

But Ianthe was tending to her assailant. Peony looked between them and extinguished the magic lighting her palms as cold confusion and dread washed over her. Was this some ritual or social practice she had missed? Why the fuck was she helping a wereman who had lifted her off her feet an assaulted her? Somehow, Peony felt she was at the butt of a joke she was failing to understand.

"Shit." She'd been set up in some way, some guy had gotten hurt as a consequence and guilt dropped like a stone in her stomach.