The emergency escape hatch hissed open with a puff of pressurized steam.
Star-Baron Kael glanced frantically over his shoulder, his aristocratic lace cuffs soaked in cold sweat. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Above him, the mountain shook with the deafening clang of dwarven hammers and the happy songs of five thousand Spirit-Elf arborists. Every sound reminded him that his ruthless superior, Star-Envoy Varkos, had been swatted like a fly and was currently sweeping snow in a bright yellow sanitation vest.
Kael did not want to sweep snow. He certainly did not want to eat salted turnips.
He scrambled into the cramped, egg-shaped escape shuttle, his trembling fingers flying across the brass navigational console.
“Coordinates locked,” Kael muttered under his breath, wiping cold sweat from his mustache. “Wormhole trajectory aligned with Nebula Hub #1. Thirty seconds to emergency purge.”
Before his boot could clear the hatch threshold, two muddy hands grabbed his velvet pant leg.
“Lord Star-Baron! Take us with you!” a shrill, desperate female voice shrieked.
