She was dragging him through the heavy rain. Tears of pain streamed down her face as she pushed him toward the grave. It was very dark, and the rain fell in sheets. The woods were shadowy and misty, the smoke hanging low in the air.
150 Days ago.....
The men's voices cut through the morning mist like knives. "You can't run from me, Lyra!" one shouted, his tone sharp, filled with menace."Wait! We're going to catch you!" the other bellowed, pounding after her on the wet wooden planks.
Lyra's heart thundered in her chest. Every shouted word drove her faster, her legs pumping with raw determination. Her scarf whipped around her neck as she darted behind a stack of crates, then leaped onto the side of a small boat bobbing in the harbor.
She could hear them closing in, their boots splashing through puddles, their breaths ragged but steady. Each shout made her pulse spike. Each step reminded her how real the danger was how close they were to finally trapping her.
Her green eyes scanned the docks frantically, looking for another way to escape. Her hands gripped the edge of a crate, sliding along the slick wood, seeking leverage to jump onto another boat. She had no plan, only instinct and desperation.
"Lyra! Don't think you can hide forever!" one of them yelled, and his voice carried over the water, making her shiver despite the exertion.
Her lips parted in a silent vow: I won't let them catch me… not now, not ever.And with a deep breath, she pushed off the crate, landing on the next boat with a splash, continuing her desperate flight across the harbor, the shouting men hot on her heels.
Lyra skidded to a halt at the far end of the pier, her chest heaving, every muscle trembling from the relentless chase. Ahead, a small boat bobbed gently against the dock, tethered by a single rope. A man in white moved nearby, untying the boat, unaware of her presence.
Without thinking, Lyra sprinted the last few steps and dove aboard. She pressed herself flat beneath a tangled pile of fishing nets, letting them drape over her like a protective veil. The damp smell of seaweed and salt filled her nose, but it was better than the rain-soaked air outside. Her green eyes widened as she held her breath, every heartbeat loud in her ears.
The footsteps approached. Her pulse quickened, but the man didn't see her. He only saw empty space where she had just been, and the creaking planks beneath his shoes. The two black-suited men were gone, their shouts fading into the distance, leaving only an eerie silence behind. They had no idea she was hiding mere feet away.
The man in white moved closer. His shoes were spotless, pure white against the wet wood of the deck. Lyra's gaze followed them, careful not to breathe too heavily, careful not to make a sound. He climbed toward the helm, the boat's wheel glinting in the soft morning light.
Then he started the engine. The low roar of the motor filled the air, vibrating through the wooden planks and into her hiding place. Lyra's hands clutched the fishing net tighter, holding herself still as the boat began to drift away from the pier.
She exhaled slowly, barely daring to move. For the first time in hours, the immediate danger seemed… paused. But somewhere deep inside, she knew this moment of quiet was fragile, fleeting, and it could shatter at any second.
The boat rocked gently as it drifted away from the dock. Lyra lay still beneath the fishing net, her breath shallow, every fiber of her body tense. The motor's low hum filled the quiet morning, mixing with the faint slap of water against the hull.
Footsteps approached, deliberate and slow. She dared a glance. At first, all she saw were pristine white shoes, stepping steadily across the deck. Her gaze traveled upward, along the man's strong legs, past his broad chest, until it finally reached his face.