Now the sorcerer is running. He is escaping, fleeing, tearing haphazardly through the halls in the flickering torchlight. His face is white and frightened, suspicious, aged. From the sight of him, you would say ten years had passed since he killed the beast, but you know it has been only hours.
He is running from the dungeons. He is running from the suddenly-unfamiliar face of the king that leaned over him.
He is running full tilt from his destiny and for now he just doesn't care.
The life has returned to his eyes, but they are still in shadow as the torches flash strange dancing light upon his raggedy clothes and drawn face. Even as he runs, his body is tense and ready for action, waiting. He is looking around, prepared for something.
But there are no guards coming. The bells are not ringing.
His feet keep pumping urgently, for his life depends on it. His chest is swollen with the breath he is holding until he has to let it go or explode. His hands are clenched into hard fists at his side.
Destiny. Princes. Kings. Dungeons. In his flight, he is leaving them all behind, just as the faint rays of dawn consider leaking in through the windows.