The horn's echo rolled through the forest and faded, leaving a hollow quiet behind it. Milt stayed frozen at the treeline, eyes fixed on the road. Dust drifted lazily where the sound had come from, as if nothing had changed.
But everything had.
That call wasn't for panic. It was control. Coordination.
His ears twitched, catching distant movement—boots on packed earth, metal tapping wood. Not close yet, but coming. If the hunters had allies, this road would turn from a line of escape into a net.
Milt backed into the trees, slow and careful. The pressure under his skin stirred at the thought of more running. He shoved it down.
If he crossed the road, he'd be seen.
If he stayed in the forest, he'd be cornered.
Milt followed the road from a distance, moving parallel through brush and rock. He kept the packed earth in sight but never touched it, watching for signs—fresh tracks, broken weeds, the glint of metal.
The forest here was thinner. Older. Trees spaced wider, roots knotted and exposed. Bad for hiding. Good for seeing trouble early.
He advanced in short bursts, stopping often to listen. The horn didn't sound again, but voices did. Low. Measured. At least three now.
They were organizing.
Milt angled uphill, choosing height over cover. From a ridge, he could see a bend in the road ahead. Two figures stood there, spears resting on shoulders, posture relaxed but alert. Guards.
So that was the plan. Seal the exits.
His chest tightened. He could try to slip between them, but one mistake would end it. He needed something else—an opening that didn't look like one.
His gaze slid farther down the road and caught movement. A wagon. Slow, heavy, pulled by a pair of oxen. One driver. No escort.
Opportunity, sharp and dangerous.
Milt moved ahead through the trees, circling until he was closer to the bend. He studied the guards. They watched the forest more than the road, trusting the horn and their numbers to handle anything human-sized.
Good.
He waited until the wagon drew nearer, wheels groaning, the oxen snorting. The driver muttered to himself, tapping the reins. As the wagon reached the bend, one guard stepped out to flag it down.
Milt acted.
He slid downslope and hurled a stone into the brush on the opposite side of the road. It struck a trunk with a loud crack.
Both guards snapped toward the sound.
Milt broke cover and sprinted—not toward the road, but along it, staying low, using the wagon's bulk as moving cover. The driver shouted in surprise. One ox bellowed.
Milt vaulted onto the wagon's rear, claws biting wood, then rolled beneath it, clinging to the axle as it lurched forward again.
Shouts erupted behind him.
"Hey—stop!"
The driver whipped the reins, panic lending speed. The wagon rattled, stones cutting into Milt's back as he flattened himself and held on. The pressure surged on instinct, flowing into his arms. He gritted his teeth and kept it tight, controlled.
Boots pounded on the road. Someone grabbed the wagon's side, then slipped as it gained momentum. A spear tip scraped wood inches from his face.
Then the road dipped, the wagon bounced, and the pursuing footsteps fell away.
Minutes later, the noise thinned to distance.
Milt waited longer than necessary before letting go. He dropped into a ditch, rolled, and vanished into tall grass, heart hammering.
He didn't stop until the road curved out of sight and the forest thickened again.
The moment he slowed, the pain caught up.
His arms shook uncontrollably, muscles burning as if he'd held them over a fire. The pressure had done its work—and taken payment. He slumped against a tree and slid down, breathing ragged.
His palms were torn where claws had dug too deep into wood. Blood smeared bark. His back throbbed from stone impacts, each breath pulling tightness through his ribs.
He pressed his forehead to his knees and waited for the dizziness to pass.
It didn't, not fully.
When he lifted his head, the world tilted. He forced himself upright anyway. Resting too long meant dying tired instead of fighting.
He listened.
The road noise was gone, but the forest wasn't quiet. Birds returned in uneven bursts. Somewhere far off, another horn answered the first—shorter, more distant.
They were communicating now. Passing information.
Milt had crossed the road, escaped the box. But he'd shown them something new.
This thing could plan.
Could use distraction.
Could ride a wagon like a parasite and disappear.
Next time, they wouldn't leave gaps. Next time, they'd expect tricks.
By late afternoon, the land sloped downward into a shallow valley. Through the trees, Milt saw rooftops—wood and thatch clustered around a river bend. Smoke rose in thin columns.
A settlement.
Real shelter. Food. Water. Tools.
And walls of rules he didn't know.
Milt crouched on a rocky outcrop and studied it from afar. People moved between buildings. A guard tower stood near the road, banners hanging limp in the heat.
If he approached openly, he'd be seen as a monster.
If he avoided it, he'd bleed out in the wild.
The choice wasn't between safety and danger.
It was between being hunted… or being judged.
A ripple of shouts rose from the settlement's gate.
Milt realized the hunters had reached the road here first.