Dylan's POV
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The wind whistled in his ears like a warning that came too late. His feet pounded the uneven ground, slipped on the pebbles, caught on roots. Dylan no longer knew exactly how long he'd been running—only that the air he gasped with each breath burned his throat. Behind him, the sounds of the hunt were still there—muffled by distance, but steady.
As if the Net of Death didn't even need to hurry to catch him.
The light rain from earlier had left a treacherous sheen on the ground, a slick dampness where his steps faltered. Every misstep cost him. Every ragged breath stretched the seconds he didn't have to spare. And his legs, already gnawed by exhaustion and hunger, were beginning to protest, muscles locking under the strain.
He cleared a rocky outcrop and pressed himself against the stone, watching.
