Porcupine Ridge I'm not afraid of a little fire

Reverie was not a selfless creature. She had been, once; back in The Gilded Sea, where she'd sacrificed her own happiness each day so that her siblings might smile.
Then the fire had come for her.
And she'd learned that day that no one else would prioritize her happiness over their own, that if she did not put herself first then no one would at all. She'd promised herself that she would never make that mistake again. So she ran; she searched for the light, and when she found it she clutched it tightly to her breast. She locked herself away from the world, guarding that light so fiercely that after a time it had started to fade, stifled and starving for air.
Somewhere along the way, the fire in her finally died — and she learned another lesson then, too. That to save herself was to become something cold, something hard and uncaring of who she might hurt in the process. She'd learned that happiness was not worth any cost; that there was no point to self-preservation if the self turned twisted and unrecognizable in the process.

When she parted from Amalia and heard those faint foreign footsteps, a million thoughts ran through her head.
Reverie knew first that she was afraid; that she wanted to run; that Boone and Blossom would be waiting for her and she could hardly bear the thought of leaving them to wait and wonder forever. Had she not rebelled against the same fate once? But the footsteps started to drift past her, on the trail of prey left unconquered, and Reverie knew next that she could not choose herself. Not this time.
She turned resolutely even as her paws shook; even as something ugly and panicked reared in her chest; even as her throat burned with sudden bile. What am I doing? What am I doing what am I —
And she felt nothing but her heart beating in her ears as somehow her paws moved, somehow a snarl tore itself from her tightening throat, somehow she lunged for the tawny hocks of death shadowing the one she'd meant to save. She tasted blood and the wilds; she wondered if this was what Lestan had felt, this fear.
Then there were no thoughts. There was only blood, and running, and cold air in her lungs and a piercing feline shriek and the mountains stretching vast and cold and grey beyond. Reverie ran; she led the cat up, up into the mountains and through the ridge, soft pads tearing on jagged stone, sharp teeth catching her thighs each time the distance dwindled. She felt none of it, nothing, nothing until she slipped.

And then it was the open air she felt through her fur, a freedom so much like flying.

It was blue she saw; blue flowers in a vast field of gold.