The morning was stretching across the forest like a slow exhale, a pale glow filtering through the branches as Rosalie was crossing the underbrush with Aurore nestled against her chest. Her breathing was tight, controlled, every step measured. She was forcing herself not to look back, not to wonder how close the trackers might be, not to imagine the sound of claws scraping bark or the heavy cadence of boots closing in. The night behind her had collapsed in flames and screams, but dawn was pretending nothing had happened. Dawn was lying.
Aurore stirred, giving a soft whimper that vibrated against Rosalie's ribs. She adjusted the baby's blankets, making sure the fabric covered her hybrid ears, making sure no stray sound rose above the wind. Rosalie's body was aching from the relentless pace, but she kept walking, pushing through brambles that clawed at her clothes, branches that slapped against her arms, roots that tried to trip her. She was still shaking from the fight in the corridor, from the image of Richard standing in silhouette as she escaped the nursery, from the echo of his voice promising he would find her.
She pressed Aurore closer. "I'm not letting him take you," she whispered, the words barely audible, a vow carved into the air. The forest did not answer. It simply kept watching.
Hours later, when the sun was high and the threat of patrols diminished, Rosalie slowed her pace and settled near a fallen tree. She set Aurore on her lap and fed her carefully, controlling the tremor in her hands. The baby's tiny fingers curled around one of her own, soft and trusting. Rosalie lowered her forehead to Aurore's, letting herself breathe for the first time since the palace gates collapsed behind her.
She should have been considering their next move—calculating distances, recalling maps, thinking of safe houses—but her mind kept drifting to the palace halls, to Richard's expression when he realized the queen had fled with the child. His pride had always been a blade, and she had wounded it. She had wounded the king. She knew exactly what that meant.
She forced her gaze back to the forest. The wind was shifting. There were too many scents mingling now—pine sap, damp leaves, traces of distant humans, and something sharper, metallic, tinged with fur. A signal that the kingdom was stirring.
She could not linger.
Rosalie rose again, Aurore secured against her, and resumed moving through the trees. She was not heading toward any safe city; she had abandoned that plan. She needed to disappear first, dissolve into the world of humans where royal trackers would hesitate to cause public chaos. A hidden apartment, a forged identity, a quiet life—none of it would last forever, but it would buy Aurore time. Time meant survival.
By late afternoon, she reached the outskirts of a human town. Cars were passing. People were walking. The air smelled normal, untouched by the stench of royal politics and ancient hierarchies. Rosalie kept her hood over her head, hiding the faint beast-lines on her face, her ears flattened beneath the fabric, her tail tightly bound against her leg under her coat. She walked with confidence, blending in as she had been trained long ago.
At a modest apartment building, she climbed the stairs and knocked on a door marked only by a peeling number. Inside lived a human woman, old, solitary, discreet—the kind who owed Rosalie a favor from a lifetime ago. The door opened. The woman's eyes widened at the sight of the baby but she stepped aside without a question.
Rosalie entered, exhaustion collapsing over her like a wave.
Aurore slept that night in a borrowed crib. Rosalie sat on a narrow mattress beside her, watching the child's small chest rise and fall. The moonlight was glinting on the faint silver streak in Aurore's hair—the same mark carried by her father, the line that condemned them both.
Rosalie closed her eyes and tried not to imagine what Richard was doing at that exact moment. She knew him too well. He would be interrogating guards, scenting the halls, reconstructing her path with the cold precision of a beast-king. And when he realized she had fled the kingdom instead of the forests, he would send someone capable of blending among humans.
Someone like Simon.
The thought squeezed her throat.
She brushed a kiss on Aurore's forehead and whispered, "We leave at dawn."
When morning came, Rosalie moved under a steely sky, the baby strapped against her chest, a duffel bag over her shoulder. She crossed streets briskly, ignoring the cold air that burned her lungs. Her plan was not perfect, but perfection was a luxury. Survival was enough.
She took a bus heading toward the human capital. The ride was long, filled with the muted chatter of passengers and the low hum of the engine. Rosalie kept her gaze fixed on the window. Aurore slept in her arms, undisturbed.
At one point, a man took a seat beside her and offered a polite smile. She returned it faintly, careful not to let her canines show. She kept her posture unassuming, her aura controlled, her instincts restrained. Years of living beside a king had taught her how to make herself invisible.
By noon, the bus entered the outskirts of a vast city. Tall buildings rose like metallic trees. Crowds thickened. Traffic slowed. The anonymity of human life wrapped around her like a cloak.
She rented a small apartment under a false name. The place was cramped but passable: a single room, a kitchenette, a narrow bath. She laid Aurore on the bed and looked around. It wasn't safety, but it was distance. Distance mattered.
She spent the rest of the day preparing for a life lived in pieces—false documents, emergency bags, escape routes. She made lists, crossed them out, rewrote them. She paced. She checked the windows twice, then a third time. She fed Aurore. She held her until the baby drifted to sleep.
By nightfall, exhaustion dragged at Rosalie's limbs again, but she stayed awake, sitting by the window, watching the city lights flicker like distant embers. Every sound made her ears twitch beneath her hood. A car backfiring. A voice calling out. Footsteps running down the hall.
She flinched at each one.
She breathed through all of them.
And then—when the clock neared midnight—something shifted in the air. A scent. Barely perceptible, threaded with steel and rain. Familiar. Unavoidable.
Her heart slammed.
Simon was here.
Not close yet, but near enough that her instincts recognized the pattern of his presence—the cold focus, the clean precision, the muted violence humming beneath the surface. He was a ghost in the kingdom, a tool crafted by Richard's cruelty, the kind of man who never failed his king.
Rosalie stood, pulling the curtains shut. Aurore stirred from the sudden movement. Rosalie scooped her into her arms and kissed the top of her head, pulse hammering against her ribs.
"Shh," she whispered, though the tremor in her hands betrayed her. She tightened her grip around the baby and paced toward the door.
She had to think.
If Simon was tracking her, he had followed the faint trail she left, or Richard had sent him blindly with enough information to make educated guesses. He would not know her exact location yet—not unless he had visual confirmation. She had time. Minutes, maybe hours. But time.
Rosalie turned toward the window again, cracked the curtains a fraction. The street below was quiet, almost serene. No shadows moving unnaturally. No figures lingering. No sign of him.
But the scent would not lie.
Rosalie grabbed her duffel bag, packed what she could, wrapped Aurore in warm layers, and prepared to leave the apartment quietly. Simon was an excellent hunter, but she knew some of his habits—his methodical approach, his preference for silent entry, the way he circled before striking. She needed to be out before he finished circling.
She slipped into the hallway and locked the door behind her. She descended the stairs carefully, keeping her steps light, her presence muted. Outside, the air was crisp and carried the scent of rain. She didn't wait. She kept moving.
She took narrow streets, then wider ones, blending into crowds, then disappearing from them. She walked until her legs burned. She walked until the city shifted around her. She walked because stopping would mean dying.
When she reached a bridge overlooking the river, she paused, catching her breath. The water below was dark, moving steadily toward the horizon. Lights shimmered on its surface, distorted by the current.
Aurore opened her eyes, small and luminous, and Rosalie's chest tightened. "It's all right," she murmured, stroking the baby's cheek. "We're almost safe."
The lie tasted bitter.
A movement behind her made her ears twitch.
Rosalie turned slowly.
Empty walkway. No one there.
But the scent—
Closer.
She forced herself to breathe, to move again, to step off the bridge and into the next street. She kept her gaze forward, her ears tuned backward.
And then she heard it.
Bootsteps. Controlled. Measured. Familiar.
Simon.
Rosalie pushed deeper into the city, slipping into alleys she had memorized minutes earlier. She moved with a hunter's speed, her body low, her senses sharpened. Her pulse roared in her ears. Aurore let out a soft cry, and Rosalie flinched. She shushed her quickly.
Then a shadow shifted at the far end of the alley.
Rosalie froze.
The silhouette was tall, broad-shouldered, unmistakably disciplined. Not close enough to attack, not far enough to lose. She could not see his eyes, but she felt them sweeping the alley. She saw him tilt his head slightly—listening.
Rosalie stepped back, pressed Aurore against her chest, and whispered, "Hold on."
Then she ran.
She ran through the alleys, turning sharply, avoiding dead ends, leaping over debris, pushing her body to its limits. The baby clung to her. The wind sliced against her face.
She did not look back.
She did not need to.
She could feel him behind her—steady, relentless, gaining ground.
The city blurred.
The night stretched.
Then Rosalie burst into a crowded street, her breath ragged, her heart pounding. She darted through pedestrians, weaving between bodies, ignoring startled voices. She kept her head down, her hood forward, her instincts screaming.
And still—she sensed him closing in.
She knew then: she needed something more than running. She needed to hide where even Simon's instincts would falter.
Rosalie spotted an old subway entrance and made a decision before she could doubt it. She slipped inside, descending the stairs, losing herself in the labyrinth of tiled corridors, sharp artificial lights, and echoing sounds.
The scent trails would break here.
The noise would distort direction.
The crowds would blur movement.
She clutched Aurore to her chest and walked deeper, merging into a group of commuters just before a train arrived. Doors opened. People poured in. Rosalie followed, stepping inside just as the doors began to close.
For a second, she looked back.
And she saw him.
Simon stood at the bottom of the stairs, his expression unreadable, his posture still. He watched the train doors close, watched Rosalie through the window, watched the impossibility of the situation unfold.
Their eyes met.
Her breath stopped.
Then the train jerked forward, pulling her away, leaving Simon behind on the platform—just a fading shape in a tunnel of dim light.
Rosalie exhaled shakily.
For tonight, they had survived.