Low moved through the dense undergrowth like a shadow, her small frame surprisingly agile, almost supernaturally silent amidst the tangled roots and fallen leaves.
The bounty hunters, now mounted on a pair of sturdy, ill-tempered packhorses they'd had tethered nearby, had made little effort to conceal their trail, confident in their capture and likely dismissive of any pursuit from a lone girl.
Low, who had never had much love for the outdoors, having spent most of her childhood navigating the concrete wilderness of the orphanage, now found herself moving with the instincts of a seasoned tracker. She kept them just within sight, a silent, vengeful predator observing its prey.
Then she smelled it, cutting through the damp, earthy aroma of the forest floor. A faint, almost negligible metallic tang on the cool mountain air, barely perceptible at first, even to her.
Blood.
Her senses, still preternaturally heightened from the adrenaline of the fight and something else, something new and unfamiliar stirring within her, locked onto it.
As she drew closer, careful to stay downwind, the metallic note intensified, becoming sharper, more distinct, carrying with it an undercurrent that made her breath catch.
It was a scent she now recognized with chilling certainty, a unique, vital signature she hadn't consciously registered as such before, but now knew with an absolute, gut-wrenching conviction.
Leonotis.
A knot of cold, hard dread tightened in her stomach, quickly followed by a white-hot surge of protectiveness, fierce and utterly unfamiliar, that flooded through her veins.
They hadn't just captured him; they had hurt him.
Leonotis, the impulsive, magic-wielding, often infuriating pest who had somehow, against all her better judgment, wormed his way into her reluctant, fiercely guarded sense of responsibility.
The thought of him injured, vulnerable, at the mercy of those brutes, ignited a cold, dangerous fire within her that she hadn't known she possessed.
Along with the protectiveness came that other sensation again, the strange and exhilarating thrum of heightened awareness, of latent power.
Her senses sharpened further, almost painfully. The rustle of leaves far ahead, the distant, mournful cry of a hawk circling overhead, the almost inaudible creak of leather from the bounty hunters' saddles – each sound was amplified, preternaturally clear.
Her muscles felt coiled and ready, a vibrant, restless strength thrumming beneath her skin.
The memory of wrestling with the orphanage bullies for scraps of food, the constant, gnawing hunger, the sheer, grinding effort of daily survival – it all felt strangely distant now, as if she were viewing her past, weaker self through a hazy, distorting lens.
Now, she felt lighter, quicker, imbued with a newfound, almost feral power she couldn't explain but embraced without hesitation.
The trail, marked by the scent of Leonotis's blood and the careless passage of the horses, led to a small, sun-dappled clearing.
One of the bounty hunters, the burly man with the scarred face and dead eye Low now recognized as Borin, sat carelessly on a fallen log, a crude, heavy crossbow resting across his lap.
Leonotis was slumped against a tree opposite him, his hands bound tightly with rough rope, his head bowed in apparent defeat.
Low's breath hitched. Even from this distance, she could see the dark, angry stains on the ropes around his wrists, the raw, blistered skin of his palms that spoke of fire.
A silent, vicious snarl formed in her throat. They would regret that.
The surge of newfound strength intensified, and Low knew, with a chilling, absolute certainty, that she wouldn't hesitate to make them pay, to make them understand the terrible mistake they had made.