She hears his pursuit though its evident by her unabated pace she's by no means in rush to acknowledge it. Feels his eyes despite her own turned towards the tapestry of night beyond the torches burning unattended on the edge of the portico. The shore below the palace had been planted with gardens in Tectamus' time, but then let go wild. The salt wind altered the grass, but the trees, cedar, myrtle, tamarind, the oak sacred to the king of the god, held fast. They grew together into a thick jungle overgrown by the lazy prowl of predators.
Her nails scraped along the ledge of the low wall that partitioned off the cloister from it's untamed extension. Wine hummed it's frenetic song along her skin and the foreign company at her back reminds her she is restless. Minos has ordered the tributes be treated with all courtesy, with no talk of coming trial.
"You should be inside, celebrating your final days, Athenian." Ariadne has never been much good at minding her father.