1
SERAH
The night I run is the kind that swallows sound whole.
My boots strike stone in a rhythm that's stopped making sense—left, right, stumble, catch myself before my knees crack open on the rocks. The canyon stretches ahead like a throat, narrowing and widening without pattern, and I've lost track of how many hours I've been moving through it. My body knows only forward. Forward means not back. Not back means not chains.
The knife wound in my side pulls with every breath, a hot line of fire that's spread its infection through my ribs like roots. I can feel it when I press my palm there—the skin's wrong, too hot, swollen tight enough that touching it sends sparks behind my eyes. The fabric of my stolen tunic sticks to the wound, and I stopped checking it after the second day when I saw the red streaks crawling up toward my armpit.
I should've cleaned it. Should've found clean water, used something other than the filthy rag I'd torn from a dead guard's shirt.
Should've done a lot of things.
The canyon walls rise on either side, jagged silhouettes against a sky that's more black than blue. Stars scatter overhead in patterns I don't recognize, constellations that belong to this gods-forsaken world instead of the one my ancestors came from. Not that it matters. I was born here. Raised here. Sold here.
My foot catches on a rock I don't see until I'm already falling, and I go down hard enough that my teeth crack together. The impact jars the wound and I bite down on the cry that wants to escape, swallowing it into something that sounds more like a wounded animal than a woman.
Can't make noise. The darkness is full of things that listen.
I push myself up on trembling arms, fingers scraping against stone that's still warm from the day's heat. The desert had been worse—at least here there's shade during daylight, water that runs cold and clean through the riverbeds. But the mountains felt safer than this. The mountains had trees, cover, places to hide that didn't echo every footstep back at you like a taunt.
This place is wrong.
The slave caravan had been heading south, away from the Orclands, when whatever attacked us came down from the cliffs. I hadn't stopped to watch what did the killing—I'd just run when the chains broke and the screaming started. Grabbed a knife from a guard whose throat had been opened ear to ear, took his waterskin and a piece of hard bread from his belt, and disappeared into the rocks before anyone noticed I was gone.
That was three days ago. Maybe four. Time slides around when fever takes hold.
I force myself upright, using the canyon wall as support. The stone feels rough under my palm, gritty with sand that the wind's blown in from the western desert. My legs shake but hold. That's something. As long as they hold, I keep moving.
The drum sound starts just after moonrise.
It's distant, rhythmic, coming from somewhere high above where the canyon walls meet the sky. Not one drum—several, their beats overlapping in patterns that feel deliberate. Ceremonial. My stomach clenches and I press myself flatter against the rock face, trying to become part of the shadow.
Orcs. Has to be.
The southern slavers had talked about them sometimes, their voices dropping low like speaking the name too loud would summon them. Massive creatures who claimed these northern territories as their own, who raided human settlements and kept dark elf slaves in cages for sport. They'd described them as monsters who wore bones as jewelry and ate their enemies' hearts.
I don't know what's true and what's myth meant to keep slaves compliant.
What I know is that the drums keep beating and something in my chest responds to the rhythm despite myself, pulse trying to match the cadence. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper.
Keep moving.
The riverbed appears after another hour of stumbling through narrow passages. I smell it before I see it—that clean mineral scent of running water over stone. My throat's so dry it hurts to swallow, tongue thick and useless in my mouth. The waterskin ran empty yesterday.
I half-slide down a steep embankment, catching myself on scrub brush that tears at my palms. Don't feel it. The fever's gotten bad enough that pain's starting to blur at the edges, turning distant and dreamy. My hands look like they belong to someone else when I hold them in front of my face.
The water runs shallow here, maybe ankle-deep, flowing over smooth stones that gleam in the starlight. I drop to my knees at the edge and plunge my hands in without checking first forparasites or poison or any of the thousand things that could kill me slower than thirst.
It's cold enough to hurt.
I drink until my stomach cramps, then splash water on my face and neck, gasping at the shock of it. For a few seconds, the fever recedes and my head clears enough to think beyond the next step. I'm somewhere in the northern territories. The canyon system is massive—I could wander in here for weeks without finding a way out. The infection in my side is spreading. I have no food, no real weapon, no plan beyond keeping my legs under me.
I'm going to die out here.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it settles like relief. At least I'll die free.
A cry splits the night—something between a howl and a shriek that bounces off the canyon walls until it sounds like it's coming from everywhere at once. I freeze, water dripping from my chin, every muscle locked. The sound comes again, closer this time, and I recognize the hunting call of something with teeth.
