Fight or flight.
Isn't that the typical choices available in this situation?  For one such as this, only one option is available: flight.

Hooves digging deep into the loam spring an agile body forward, a dainty ghost of a girl slipping between the trees in the night.  Running, running so fast from the terrible villains the night had loosed upon the refuges of her home.  Cream and blue mane of impossible length flying behind her like a flag, the remnants of soft braids all but indistinguishable after the marathon of a sprint undertaken by the maiden.  The only sound in her ears the echoing scream, a screech, a scratching claw in her mind - her mother calling for her to run.  So run she did.  And run she will.

Finally, after hours of the pounding in her chest and under her hooves, the suddenly felt weight of her limbs pulls her toward the ground stronger than the force of her fear pulling her forward.  Slight body collapses midstride, knees buckling from exhaustion, back keeling over, nearly flipping before sliding to a halt on the cool forest floor.  Her pale form lies disheveled on the ground, the mess of her once perfect braids laying like an ugly rug against the green of the forest.  Pine needles dig in under her soft, pale coat, but the dull sting cannot reach her now.  The moon peeking from the branches of evergreen trees patterns her pale figure, and becomes the last kaleidoscope of black and white Zyanya sees before she begins to drift.  The darkness fills her mind, silencing the screams and replacing it with a cold and lonely slumber.  For a while, she sleeps, unaware of her surroundings and dangerously unafraid of the seemingly peaceful forest of which she knows nothing.

The ambushers had disappeared long ago, but who is to say a more dangerous predator does not lurk here?

The sound of an insistent bird is the next thing the wintry maiden remembers.  The moon turned to a pale morning light.  Appalled by her current position, strewn across the forest floor, Zya scrambles to gather her weight upon lithe limbs.  Finding her joints and bones creaking with protest, the little lamb now remembers her wild run.  Hours and hours she ran, but where had she ended up?  Was her family near?

A pale, small face glances around amid the shadows of trees in an unknown realm.  Lavender eyes filled with a hopeful light, slowly dimming as the understanding that she is alone sets in.

For the first time in her short life, Zyanya is alone.