MIRA
The kitchens reeked.
Fat, blood, and old onions hung heavy in the smoky air, coating my tongue and clinging to my skin. Already, the men were drinking, leering, slapping each other's backs in a display of false camaraderie.
I slipped out the side door without a word.
No one stopped me. They didn’t bother anymore. Maybe they’d learned I bite. Or maybe I’d perfected the art of invisibility, becoming so snarling, filthy, and jagged that they simply didn’t see me.
Good.
The forest was wet and sharp, and the moment I crossed the last muddy rut of the outer yard, I could breathe, just a little.
I tugged my shawl tighter and pressed deeper into the trees. The hem of my dress was already soaked, dragging in the muck. It didn’t matter. It was torn anyway, stained with old kitchen grease and pig’s blood. I kept it that way on purpose, cultivating an air of half-feral wildness. It kept their hands off me, most of the time.
My boots squelched. High above, a crow cawed. Somewhere behind me, someone shouted my name. Too late.
I’d learned how to vanish.
The forest didn’t welcome me, but it didn’t question me either. That was more than I could say for the keep. I stepped carefully over moss-slick roots, eyes scanning the undergrowth. I’d come for mushrooms: oyster caps if I could find them, black foots if I was lucky. They thrived in the rot and shade.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine.
Peace.
For a little while, I allowed myself to pretend. I wasn’t a kitchen drudge. I didn’t sleep in the back corner of the scullery like a rat. I wasn’t twenty-eight and already broken in ways I couldn’t name.
I found a decent patch near a fallen log and crouched to start picking. My fingers were cold, already stiff.
The first gust of wind went almost unnoticed.
But when the second came—sharper, colder, crackling with static—I glanced up.
Shit.
The sky was turning, and fast. Thick, low clouds, unnatural for this time of day, roiled above. The storm wasn't supposed to arrive until evening, but the forest was already shifting. The air smelled like lightning.
I rose, wiped my hands on my skirts, and turned.
Except…no. Something was wrong.
The log behind me. I didn't remember it. Or that rise of earth. The path I thought I was following had vanished, erased from existence. My chest tightened.
I took three steps forward, then stopped.
A low sound ripped through the trees.
A growl: low, wet, and close.
I froze, slowly turning my head.
And then I saw them.
Eyes, glinting in the underbrush. One pair, then another, and another.
Dire wolves.
Too big, too quiet, too hungry.
