Chapter 172

Lila

The forest felt wrong before I knew why but it wasn’t the usual wrong of hunger and nerves; this was a hush that swallowed birdsong mid-note.

Even the insects seemed to dim themselves as dusk pooled between the trunks.

My steps shortened on instinct. I left the trail and slid into the brush, easing between underbrush until the mud slicked my boots and the smell of rot climbed into my throat.

A torn leather strap hung from a bramble ahead, frayed and stained dark. Farther on, a scatter of pale crumbs and a boot print pressed deep, heel twisted like someone had stumbled.

I crouched, fingertips hovering over the print without touching it. It was fresh. The edges still held their shape.

The overwhelming feeling of danger and the need to turn back almost had me running.

But I didn’t. Instead, I folded left, skirting the trail until a fallen pine sprawled across a dip in the earth creating a small shelter.

The trunk was rotting in strips, bark flaking off in damp curls. I slid into the hollow beneath and pulled leaf-litter over my legs, trying to force my breath to be slow and quiet. To be as still as a statue.

Low voices came a few minutes later, too casual for travelers.

“…smell that?” one asked, words soft but edged. “Smoke and… herbs.”

“Old,” another replied. “Keep sweeping. The King’s people scattered. The order was to find his survivors, not collect souvenirs so put that knife away.”

Breath snagged high in my chest. I pressed my tongue flat against my teeth to stop them from chattering.

Boots scraped the trail feet away and a shadow broke across the branches inches from my face. I could hear the wet inhale of a wolf who’d been running hard; his exhale rasped like sandpaper.

The log funneled their sounds straight to me: the leathery squeak of a glove, the scrape what must have been the knife one mentioned, the sniffing pull of air as they tested scents on the wind.

I eased my hand over my abdomen, palm wide and protective before I could stop myself. Quiet, I begged the wild panic clawing at my ribs. Quiet for both of us.

Another voice, lower, amused. “She’ll have run south with the rest.”

“She’s smarter than that,” the first said. “He said she wouldn’t want to be with the others.”

He. Whoever he was, they’d talked about me, planning the capture I knew was inevitable. I flattened myself harder into the mud until damp seeped through my cloak and chilled my spine.

A twig snapped. The bark above my cheek groaned as a weight leaned into it. My heart sprinted so fast it blurred into a single ache in my chest. I dragged a breath through my nose, shallow and took in the sour rot of the tree. I welcomed it since it would drown my own scent.

The voices fell silent in a way that wasn’t human. They were waiting, listening…hunting.

Ruby? The name was an ache I pressed against the inside of my skull. She didn’t answer. There was just the faintest prickle low in my belly as if some older instinct uncurled and watched with me.

“Tracks double back,” the second one murmured at last. “Careful. She’s a decent fighter too.”

A third voice, young and eager, piped up, “Why do we care about one female?”

A short huff of laughter. “Because we were told to find her. Not anyone. Her.”

My fingers dug into the dirt. Earth collected under my nails, grit grinding further into my skin. I didn’t dare move. The young one stepped close enough that I could hear the wet sound of his tongue swipe across his teeth.

“Could use a roll with a prize,” he muttered. “Been a while.”

Something dark and fearful flared through me. It burned the tremor out of my muscles for a single steadying heartbeat. My hand splayed firmer over my stomach. You won’t touch us.

The wind shifted and the scent of them drifted past me: sweat, iron, wet leather, the sour tang of old blood. A beetle crawled over my knuckles; I let it, jaw locked until it passed.

“No. You don’t want to piss off the King. Capture only, keep your filthy paws to yourself otherwise,” the first voice decided. “Push to the stream. If she’s hugging the ridge line, we’ll find a sign there.”

Boots shifted and the weight eased off the log. Their steps withdrew as they broke into a jog. One of them laughed, a low sound swallowed up by an increasing distance.

I stayed as still as I could manage for as long as I could.

A cramp drew my right calf into a knot so tight I saw white. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper.

When I finally convinced myself to leave the shelter of the fallen tree, the world felt too bright even in the dusk. My legs shook hard enough I had to brace a hand on the log to stand. Bark came away sticky under my palm. I wiped it on my cloak and left a smear.

The trail looked ordinary again, as if I hadn’t almost just been captured. Only the boot prints told the truth, heading south in a crooked cluster. That was a close call.

I took off the opposite way, angling until the trail thinned into smaller animal paths.

These males weren’t wandering around, they had orders.

And I was entirely certain those order were to capture me and take me back to Damon.

My fear sharpened and settled into in my stomach again. I tucked my cloak tighter, slid along the underbrush, letting the wilds swallow me whole.

We move, I told the small life I could barely feel, my palm resting over the secret of us as I weaved between the trees. We keep moving. And we stay hidden.

The forest pressed in closer the farther I went, the canopy so thick it smothered the moonlight into thin silver threads. Every rustle set my nerves on edge, every shift of shadow playing tricks on my mind.

The only safety I had was in moving deeper, away from the beaten trails into wilds even hunters avoided.

I stumbled across a ruined campsite near a stream, little more than a scatter of stones and a collapsed fire pit. A broken pan lay half-buried under leaves, and beside it, a shard of metal dulled with rust. I knelt quickly, brushing dirt from its edge.

There was a small stream nearby. Its water was cold when I cupped it into my hands, shocking my tongue, easing some of my thirst.

My reflection broke across the ripples: pale face, eyes sunken, hair straggled wild. Hardly the image of a King’s Luna. I looked more like yet another ghost.

A faint prickle threaded through me, and for one heartbeat, Ruby shifted weakly in the back of my mind. A flicker, fragile as a candle in the wind, but I finally felt her there. My throat ached with the sudden rush of hope.

Then a sound cut through the quiet: a voice. Distant and carried by the wind through the trees. I froze.

I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone rolled with confidence and a very familiar charisma. My blood iced.

It was Asher.

I couldn’t be sure. I told myself the forest was playing more tricks, that my fear had conjured something familiar. But the cadence… the way he commanded… it was him. Or close enough to convince me it could be.

The Rogues weren’t wandering, they had a leader. And if it truly was Asher, then I was more than prey, I was the key to use against Damon.

I crouched lower by the stream, clutching the my dagger so hard the wood bit into my palm. The voice faded, swallowed by distance and other sounds of the forest, leaving me without confirmation, just the echo of suspicion gnawing at me.

My breath left in a trembling rush. I had to keep moving. Deeper into the wilds, where even rogues would hesitate. Because if Asher was guiding them, they would never stop until they had me.

They were hunting me. And I would not go down quietly.