Abruptly, the fog seemed to overtake him. Enjolras breathed heavily, the coarse air seeming to catch and burn in his lungs and throat. It was overbearing. He needed to move.

"Very well. I wish you the best of luck." The words were accompanied by rasping intakes of breath. Higher ground and cleaner air were needed. This miasma could potentially have been poisoned and even if he wanted to dismiss such notions as the hypochondria propagated by Joly, it wasn't certain. This could all be psychosomatic, the adrenaline catching up with him, or the Gamemakers could have made short work of his return.

Blindly, he charged forward. The urge to escape had become all consuming.