"I can't hear what they're saying, but he keeps looking this way. There's no way he actually sees me. I'm deep in the shadow of this oak. The moonlight is all on them out in the open; it can't reach me here." Rya told herself, over and over, like saying it enough times would make it true. Still, she forced her eyes away from that terrifying man in black. One more second under that stare and her legs would give out for good.
The thought of walking straight to the red soldiers never even crossed her mind. Not once.
This was an age where men ruled everything, absolutely. Women were little more than breeding stock, house-cleaners, or pretty things to sell when coin ran low. A lone girl—tired, bleeding, half-dead on her feet—walking up to a pack of soldiers who had just butchered an army and cheered about it? They wouldn't help her. They would pass her around until there was nothing left to pass.
No. She would rather die in the woods.
Rya dug deep, searching every corner of her body for whatever scraps of strength were left. She found a tiny spark and used it. Slowly, shaking the whole time, she pushed herself up the tree trunk until she was standing again. Her legs felt like wet rope, but she locked her knees and refused to fall.
The man in black had already sent three soldiers straight toward her tree.
She was still sure they couldn't see her—not yet. But the second they got close, the shadows would no longer protect her.
She had to move.
Rya stumbled hard, almost went down again, but caught herself on the bark. The split in her lower lip had clotted into a thick scab; every breath pulled at it and sent fresh stings across her face. She lifted one trembling hand, pushed aside low branches that clawed at her like they wanted to keep her there, and started creeping toward the far side of the woods—the exact opposite direction the three soldiers were coming from.
One step. Another step. Then another. Deeper into the black between the trees.
Her feet dragged. She was hungry, but thirst was worse; her tongue felt like old leather and her throat raw. Still, she kept going anyway. Behind her were three men closing in fast. To her left, deep in the woods, were the men who wanted her dead. And somewhere in these woods were night animals that would rip a weak girl apart for supper.
She had to find somewhere—anywhere—safe before her body gave up completely.
Behind her, faint voices drifted through the trees.
"His Majesty sure is strange," one of the three soldiers was saying, kicking at leaves near the oak. "The tree is so far away. How in the seven hells did he even see something was off?"
The soldier in the middle hissed, sharp and angry. "You idiot. Have you forgotten the one iron rule that's kept most of us alive this long? Never talk about His Majesty unless he's at least a kingdom away."
The first one laughed, nervous. "Oh, come on, give us a little breathing room. There's no way any human can hear us from all the way over there—even if we screamed at the top of our lungs. But you're right… the man scares the soul right out of me. Did you see how he chopped those poor misfits down? Like they were made of straw."
"Hey—over here," the third soldier called, already behind the trunk.
A moment later all three stood in the exact spot Rya had been hiding minutes ago. One of them crouched, gloved fingers brushing the ground.
"This is… blood?" he said, voice suddenly tight. He lifted his hand; even in the weak moonlight the dark smear was clear.
Meanwhile, Rya was already out of reach.
"Did one of them escape?" the second soldier asked, hand already going to his sword.
The third one—the one who had told them to shut up—stood slowly, scanning the shadows deeper into the woods. His eyes narrowed.
"No," he said, quiet and cold. "This isn't brown-cloak blood. It's fresh. And it leads that way."
He pointed straight into the darkness Rya had just disappeared into.
"No," the first soldier said, crouching and rubbing the dark smear between his fingers. "Look how little there is. Too little for a real wound. Probably just some fox or night-cat dragging its kill. Let's not waste time. I don't think anyone slipped past us."
It wasn't that they were lazy. It also wasn't that they didn't want to confirm their theory.
It was night. Full night. The kind of black that swallowed torchlight ten paces out. They had just crawled out of a meat-grinder of a battle, bones aching, blood still drying on their blades. The last thing any of them wanted was to go stumbling blind through woods that felt older than sin and twice as hungry.
"You're right," the middle one muttered, already turning back toward the field. "We report to His Majesty. Say the ground was clean."
The other two didn't argue. They left the oak behind and disappeared into the moonlit grass.
Meanwhile, far deeper in the woods than any of them had walked, Rya was barely moving at all now. One foot dragged after the other like she was pulling chains.
Then she saw them—torchlights. Orange dots weaving between the trees.
"They're back?" she breathed, voice dry. "No… they must have split into shifts. They've been hunting me for days. This is the only way they can keep going without dropping dead themselves."
She wasn't scared anymore. She was too empty for fear. Just bone-tired, soul-tired.
She tried to circle wide, give the torches a wide berth and slip past. That was the plan.
Her body laughed at the plan.
Ten more steps and her knees almost buckled for good. She was so far from the red soldiers now that even if she'd had the strength to scream—and she didn't—no one would hear.
She turned right, desperate, and spotted it: a hole in the ground, maybe three heads wide. A thin silver blade of moonlight slipped through the leaves and fell straight down into it instead of scattering on the forest floor. The darkness inside looked almost soft.
Rya didn't think twice.
She snatched up dry branches, then a long stick, ignoring how the thorns bit deep into her palms—pain was everywhere now, one more sting didn't matter. She limped to the edge of the hole and jabbed the stick hard into the hole, once, twice, as she listened.
Nothing snarled back. Good.
She shoved the stick all the way down. It stopped after the length of one tall man. Not deep enough, but manageable.
She tossed the thorny stick aside, sat on the edge, and slid in feet-first. Bark and stone scraped her knees raw as she dropped. When her boots hit bottom she crouched low, reached up, and dragged the branches over the opening like a flimsy roof.
It wasn't much. But with Runevale soldiers closing in and her body finished, it was all she had.
She curled tight, arms around her knees, and waited. Breath shallow. Heart loud in her ears.
Minutes crawled by.
Then voices—closer than ever.
"Curses," someone spat, almost directly above her. "Just where in my mothers bedroom is she hiding? I just want to finish this and get out of these cursed woods. The place feels like it belongs to some old corpse-witch."
Rya turned to stone. She didn't dare breathe. Mostly because she was too tired to even tremble.
A torch swept slow circles overhead, orange light bleeding faintly through the gaps in her branch cover.
A rustle of leaves and boots on dirt was soin heard, then voices came in.
"We found nothing on the west side," another voice called, leading a whole group toward the hole.
"We have to find her, or else Lady Nyxelene will…"
The name died in his mouth. He swallowed hard, throat working like he'd bitten into something rotten. It wasn't fear of what she could do. It was fear of her. Just her. The kind of fear that made a man's skin crawl and his guts knot because every part of him, body and soul, wanted nothing to do with that woman.
"Let's head back for now," he decided. "We'll keep looking at first light."
Boots started to turn.
Then—crack.
The soldier stepped on the thorny wood Rya had tossed away, after using it to measure the depth of the hole. A sharp thorn punched through a tiny gap in his boot and stabbed deep into the side of his ankle.
"As if this day couldn't get any worse," he growled, bending to yank the stick free.
He froze.
Fresh blood—bright red, not his—smeared the places where torns had gripped the wood.
"Is something wrong?" one of the others asked.
"Quiet," the soldier hissed.
He stared at the blood. Could be an animal. Could be.
A slow, ugly smile spread across his face.
"Caught you," he whispered.