My hands drift to my throat, not because I want to touch the scar, but because my body remembers teeth there. Fingers there. Breath hot and cruel against my skin while I fought and fought and still lost.
Gregory is dead, but thethingshe trained didn't die as neatly as their leader.
A muffled sound curls through the trees: a signal.
My magic flares in response, a hot spike behind my ribs, the way a cornered creature raises its hackles.
I suppress it immediately because magic is a beacon. Magic is blood in the water as hungry sharks circle. Magic is why they found me at eighteen and why they never stopped searching.
I shift my weight carefully, soundlessly, easing away from the oak. My feet find the familiar pattern of packeddirt I’ve trodden down over weeks. I know every dip, root, and stone here. I slide one hand beneath the straw pallet and wrap my fingers around the only weapon I’ve managed to keep: an old hunting knife, the handle cracked, the blade stained from rabbit blood.
It won’t save me from a pack, but it makes me less helpless.
I listen harder, letting the forest’s sounds sort themselves into meaning, but beneath it is the pattern of steps that don’t belong. They’re too heavy to be an animal.
My stomach rolls. I swallow hard, tasting bile.
Move.
The word is a command I give myself, and I push the boards aside and slip out into the night.
Mist curls around my calves as I sprint barefoot toward the denser part of the forest, where brambles and low branches make travel difficult. I learned early that difficult terrain is a friend; predators prefer open ground.
A shape moves between two trunks ahead, too quick to catch clearly, but its presence is like a ripple of menace in the air. Another shifts behind me, forcing me forward. They’re corralling me away from my shack.
My lungs tighten, panic trying to claw its way up my throat, but I shove it away. Fear makes me sloppy, and I don’t have the luxury of making even the smallest mistake.
I move faster.
Branches rake at my arms. Thorns bite into my skin. A soft laugh drifts through the mist.
My blood runs cold.
They’re close enough to mock me.
Their corrupted essence brushes my senses again like grease smeared over fingertips. It makes my stomach twist,and my magic writhe as if it wants to lurch free.
Wolf, it screams.And bear.
The monsters run, but they’re not alone.
They’ve brought others.
The forest blurs around me, as my hair, unbound and wild, catches on branches, yanking my scalp hard enough to water my eyes.
Footsteps thunder behind me. They’re done circling and pretending to be quiet.
I push harder, ignoring burning lungs and legs that shake with exhaustion. The frigid air slices into my chest as I face the fact that my body is too thin, tired, and hungry for this.
But I have outrun them before.
I can do it again.
Another laugh rings out, closer now, low and satisfied.
“Run, little witch!” a rough voice calls. He laughs, his excitement bubbling like a hot spring. Bruno.
A second voice answers from somewhere to my left. “She does make it fun, doesn’t she?” Anatol calls. “The chase sharpens the appetite.” His tone is smooth and cultured, which almost makes it worse.
