Whatever hell they drag me to next, at least she escaped.
27
FORLA
Irun until my lungs burn and my legs shake beneath me, crashing through scrubland and rocky outcroppings with no thought beyond putting distance between myself and the place where they took him. Branches tear at my clothes, stones cut through my worn boots, but I don't stop. Can't stop. The image of Thoktar collapsing under those sleep darts plays over and over in my mind like a curse.
They have him. The Bounty Hunters have him, and there's nothing I can do.
Hours pass in a blur of terror and exhaustion. Every shadow could hide pursuers, every sound might be hoofbeats on stone. But the Bounty Hunters don't come—their prize was Thoktar, not some runaway human woman. I'm beneath their notice, worthless except as potential bait.
The realization should bring relief. Instead, it fills me with hollow despair.
When I finally stumble to a halt, gasping for breath against a moss-covered boulder, the sun has begun its descent toward the western peaks. My water skin is nearly empty, my food pouchcontains nothing but crumbs, and I have no idea where I am beyond "somewhere in the hills north of Penmorvah."
I need shelter. Rest. Time to think, to plan, to figure out how one woman with a knife and determination can rescue a warrior from Dark Elf captivity.
The cave mouth appears through the gathering dusk like an answer to prayer—a dark opening in the hillside, partially concealed by hanging vines and thorny shrubs. No light flickers from within, no sounds of habitation echo from its depths. Just blessed emptiness and the promise of shelter from whatever predators hunt these hills after dark.
I push through the vegetation, thorns catching at my sleeves, and peer into the gloom beyond. The entrance tunnel extends perhaps twenty feet before opening into what looks like a larger chamber. Ancient stone, worn smooth by centuries of water and wind. Natural formation, not carved by human hands.
Perfect.
I gather fallen branches from outside, strike sparks from my flint, and soon have a small fire crackling near the entrance. The flickering light reveals more of my sanctuary—a cave system that extends deeper into the hillside, with multiple chambers branching off the main passage. Someone lived here once, long ago. I can see the remains of crude furniture, stone shelves carved into the walls, even what might have been sleeping alcoves.
But dust covers everything. Thick, undisturbed layers that speak of years—maybe decades—of abandonment. Spider webs drape across doorways like forgotten curtains, and the only sounds are the whisper of wind through hidden cracks and the occasional drip of water from somewhere in the depths.
I settle beside my fire, back against solid stone, and finally allow myself to truly comprehend what's happened. Thoktar is gone. The man I love, the warrior who's protected me throughevery danger we've faced, has been dragged away in chains while I could only watch and run.
The tears come then—hot, bitter, and utterly useless. Crying won't free him from wherever he is.
I explore the cave system more thoroughly, mapping passages and chambers by firelight. The original inhabitants were clever—multiple escape routes lead up through narrow chimneys to hidden exits on the hillside above.
Water seeps through limestone cracks, forming small pools that taste clean and cold. In one chamber, I even find stores of dried meat and grain, preserved in sealed clay pots. Old, but still edible.
This place could shelter me for days if needed. Time to rest, to heal, to plan my next move. The Bounty Hunters have a head start, but they'll be moving slowly with a prisoner in tow. If I can determine their destination, maybe I can find a way to intercept them, or at least discover where they're taking him.
If only poor Nazim was here.
As I settle down for the night, wrapped in my cloak beside the dying fire, something nags at the edge of my consciousness. Some small detail that doesn't quite fit the picture of long abandonment I've constructed.
The sleeping alcove where I've made my bed is carved into solid rock, deep enough to shelter an adult human. But while everything else is covered in dust and webs, this particular spot seems... cleaner. Not pristine, but as if it's been used more recently than the decades of abandonment would suggest.
I tell myself I'm being paranoid. The wind patterns in the cave probably keep this area clearer than others. Or maybe some previous traveler, months or even years ago, sheltered here briefly and disturbed the dust. There are a dozen innocent explanations.
But as I drift toward exhausted sleep, I can't shake the feeling that I'm not alone in these caves. That somewhere in the deeper passages, something is listening to the crackle of my fire, watching the dance of shadows on stone walls, waiting for me to lower my guard completely.
The last thing I see before sleep claims me is the way the firelight flickers, casting shapes that look almost like a figure standing just beyond the reach of illumination. But when I jerk fully awake to look directly, there's nothing there but empty stone and darkness.
Just the wind, I tell myself. Just my overwrought nerves playing tricks after the trauma of the day.
But I keep my knife close as I sleep, and the fire burns lower than it should, as if something in the depths of the cave is drawing away its warmth.
28
THOKTAR
Iwake to the creak of wheels and the steady clop of hooves on stone, my head pounding like a smith's hammer against an anvil. The taste of sleep poison coats my tongue like ash, and when I try to move, chains bite into my wrists with familiar cruelty.
