I’m too thin. I don’t need a mirror to know it.
My hair used to be something strangers complimented, with its thick, red, glossy waves. Now it hangs in knots and tangles, dulled by dirt, and ratty with neglect. When I run my fingers through it, leaves and twigs fall out. Once, I found a small beetle caught in the mess, struggling like it had been trapped in a net.
My skin is pale beneath the grime, stretched too tight over bones that were never meant to protrude like this. My cheeks are hollow, and my collarbones are sharp enough to hurt when I lie on my side. My hands are cracked from the cold and stained with earth. The scars at my throat are raised lines that catch beneath my fingers when I press too hard, reminders of a past I wish could be wiped from my memory.
Sometimes, in my dreams, I’m the girl I used to be. Back then, I thought the worst thing was being hungry and alone.
Now I'm hungry and alone, but it isn’t the worst thing.
The worst part is knowing why I’m alone and being unable to change it.
The moment my magic rose inside me on my eighteenth birthday, bright and sweet, monsters sensed it. Like wolves can scent blood on the wind, they came from places I didn’t know existed, wearing human faces and carrying ancient hunger in their eyes. Gregory was only the first of them. The one who grabbed me and claimed me, even though I was never his to claim. The one who welcomed others to defile me set a plan in motion that I was too innocent to comprehend.
And even now, even after everything, I'm still unsafe.
They keep coming.
I keep running.
Sometimes it’s just a pressure in the air. Sometimes it’s tracks that are too large and deep, circling close to my shelter. Sometimes it’s the distant, unmistakable howl of something that isn’t entirely animal.
I move my shack when I have to. I erase my traces with branches that sweep awkwardly. I sleep in different places, under different boughs, wrapped in different shadows. I tell myself I’m clever. I tell myself I’m surviving.
But survival isn’t living. It is onlynot dying.
Tonight, the forest smells sharper than usual; a thin mist coils between the trees, silvering the undergrowth. The moonlight makes the frost glitter like scattered salt. My breath comes out in white puffs that vanish too quickly, swallowed by the dark. I tug conjured blankets closer, hooking them over my head.
I should sleep, but fear holds dreams at knifepoint.
Instead, I sit with my knees drawn to my chest, back pressed to the oak, my small stones of heat tucked beneath my blankets. I hold a flicker of magic in my palm only for long enough to warm my fingers, then snuff it out before it can grow curious or draw unwanted attention. I listen to the distant call of an owl and the soft skitter of something small in the leaves.
And beneath it all, like a second heartbeat, I feel it.
A wrongness at the edges of my consciousness.
At first, it’s faint, easy to dismiss as imagination. My nerves have been frayed for months; fear can make specters from nothing, especially under the torture of exhaustion. But it doesn’t go away, brushing closer, and my magic responds instinctively, rising beneath my skin like a startled animal.
I freeze.
The leaves are still. Even the insects seem to fall silent.
There are more of them this time. Multiple presences prowling at the edge of my senses. Several move through the trees in a loose circle, closing in. Their intentions are predatory and coordinated.
My stomach drops with cold, stony dread. I’ve been running for months, but tonight, the threat is different. Tonight, it feels like they’re finally done playing. They areweary of the chase. The thrill will now be in capture.
My pulse stutters, and my fingers curl around the edge of my blanket as if I can hold myself together by will alone.
The oak behind me is solid and ancient, but it can’t hide me from something that cantastemy power.
I snuff the tiny flare of warmth in my palm, even though the cold bites immediately. I’m already breathing hard. Moving will make noise. Noise will attract attention. Is it better to remain still or run?
A twig snaps somewhere to my left, sharp as a nail being driven into wood. One that could only be made by something heavy.
They are so close, I can’t make a sound.
A second snap answers, farther back. Then a third, to my right, like they’re tight around my little patch of safety.
My gaze flicks to the crude doorway and the two boards I can push aside if I must.
