The camp erupts behind us.
Shouts.
Movement.
Steel.
“Left,” I say, grabbing his arm just long enough to redirect him as we break past the outer structure. “The rotation gap—there’s a break in the perimeter.”
He adjusts immediately.
No argument.
Good.
We cut through the thinner line just as it starts to close, bodies reacting too late, too slow.
“Go,” he snaps.
We go.
The tree line hits fast, branches snapping underfoot as we push through, the sounds of pursuit rising behind us.
“They’ll follow,” I say.
“I know.”
“Then don’t slow down.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
30
VERR
The forest tears at us on the way back, branches snapping across my arms and shoulders as we force a path through terrain that doesn’t care whether we make it or not. The ground pitches unevenly beneath every step, roots catching at my boots, loose soil shifting just enough to threaten balance if I move without thinking. Behind us, the sound of pursuit grows louder, no longer measured, but jagged—orders shouted too fast, too many voices trying to correct a mistake that’s already been made.
“They’re splitting,” I say, angling slightly to the right without breaking stride, forcing the pursuit to adjust instead of predict.
Lyria keeps pace beside me, breath tight, her movements efficient even under the strain. “Half will try to cut us off before we hit the line,” she replies, ducking under a low branch, one hand brushing the trunk to steady herself without slowing. “They won’t all chase.”
“Good,” I say. “That makes them easier to break.”
She glances at me then, quick and sharp, reading the tone more than the words. “You’re not just getting us back.”
“No.”
The word settles between us, understood without needing explanation. I shift direction again, cutting across a patch of softer ground where the earth dips toward the river’s edge, the mud slick enough to distort clean tracks. It slows us slightly, but it will slow them more.
“Stay with me,” I say.
“I am,” she shoots back, and there’s something under it now—tight, focused, not fear but awareness of exactly how narrow this window is.
We break through the last stretch of trees just as the horn sounds from the village line, the note cutting clean through the air and snapping attention outward. Movement shifts instantly ahead of us, soldiers tightening formation, weapons lifting as they track not just us, but what’s coming behind.
“They see us,” Lyria says.
“They see what’s chasing us,” I reply.
