The night swallowed them whole. Smoke rolled across the sky, blotting out stars until only ragged strips of silver showed where the wind tore gaps. The village was behind them—already more fire than wood, already more scream than word. Ahead stretched nothing but the black plain, grasses bending in waves that whispered of wolves and riders alike.
Luo Chen stumbled into the ditch, knees bruised, palms scraped raw. His chest heaved as if trying to break its own ribs. The pendant in his hand cut sharp edges into his flesh, and still he could not let go. It was colder than the night air, heavier than bone. Every step felt borrowed.
Jun yanked him upright before the stumble could become a fall. "Keep north," he hissed, voice raw from smoke. "Two and two. We count." His eyes, rimmed red, did not flinch. He had always been the one to dare first, to laugh loudest. Now his laughter was gone, replaced by a tightness that made him look older than the month of seniority he had so often bragged about.
"I can't—" Luo Chen's throat rasped. He could not find the word for what he couldn't do: run, breathe, exist.
"You can after the next step," Jun said. He jammed his shoulder under Luo Chen's arm, forcing motion. "Left. Right. Breathe later."
They clawed their way out of the ditch, scrambling up the far slope. Behind, hooves clattered against fallen logs. The Wolffire were funneling their horses through the broken palisade. Shouts rose, guttural and cruel. A horn bellowed again—short this time, a hunter's call instead of a siege cry. It made the grasses tremble.
At the crest, Jun shoved Luo Chen down. They pressed flat as a flight of arrows hissed overhead. One split the soil not a hand's span from Luo Chen's temple. Dirt sprayed across his cheek, hot despite being only earth.
"Move!" Jun snapped. He was already crawling on hands and knees, keeping low where the grass thickened. Luo Chen followed, clumsy but obedient, the pendant thumping against his chest with each jolt forward.
The plain stretched endless. To the north lay the shadow of low hills, faint outlines drawn by star-silver. Beyond those hills, if the elders' maps were true, ran the dry riverbed—wide enough to swallow tracks, deep enough to hide them. But between here and there was open ground.
The horn blew again, farther behind. Then a voice louder than the rest, barking orders. Luo Chen twisted enough to see: the giant rider, tusked helm glinting, reined his horse onto the plain. He pointed his spear north. Riders spread at his command, torches snuffed to leave only dark shapes moving. Wolves slunk ahead, green eyes bobbing in the grass.
Jun's breath hitched. "They're not letting us go."
Luo Chen's own chest seized. The truth had no space for denial: they were prey now, and the hunt had only begun.
The plain offered no shelter. Grasses reached to their waists, whispering against their legs as they ran, but they were no walls, no roofs—only more places for fear to hide. The stars thinned, veiled by smoke. The fire behind had become a dull red glow, like a wound on the horizon.
Jun set their pace, short strides that wasted no strength. He carried no weapon but his sling, the pouch thumping against his ribs, yet he moved as if command belonged to him by necessity. "Keep your head low," he muttered. "Don't silhouette against the ridge. They'll be looking for outlines."
Luo Chen obeyed, though every step felt foreign, borrowed from legs that no longer belonged to him. His thoughts stuttered between images: the gleam of his father's axe, his mother's hand frozen mid-gesture, the elder's staff burning like a second sun. The pictures came sharper than the plain before him. His stomach clenched as if the memories themselves were trying to throw him to the ground.
"I can't," he gasped once more, the words tearing his throat.
Jun didn't slow. "Then lean on me. If you fall, I'll drag you. But you *will* move."
The certainty in his tone stung. Luo Chen almost hated him for it, but hatred was another weight that forced his legs forward.
Behind them came the cries of wolves. Not hunting yips—those were quick, eager. These were low, rolling growls, a song of patience. The riders knew the beasts would drive prey without effort. They were in no hurry.
Jun risked a glance back. Torchlight flickered in the distance, snuffed, then reappeared in staggered lines. "They're spreading wide," he muttered. "Pincer. They want us to bolt straight into their arms."
"What do we do?" Luo Chen whispered, ashamed of the tremor in his voice.
Jun's answer was sharp. "We *don't* do what they want." He veered left, guiding Luo Chen toward a shallow depression where grasses grew darker, thicker. "Here. Keep low."
They dropped into the hollow. For a moment the night muffled, the grasses shielding sound. Luo Chen bent double, gasping, hands on his knees. He thought of dropping the pendant, of leaving behind the weight that dragged him, but his fingers clenched tighter instead, nails digging into his palm until blood welled.
Jun crouched, listening. His profile was sharp in the dim starlight, eyes narrowed, every nerve tuned outward. He looked nothing like the boy who had stolen dried fruit at midday. He looked like someone who had been waiting his whole life for this kind of night.
Hoofbeats passed not far away. A wolf padded close enough that Luo Chen heard its breath, wet and rasping. He held his breath until his lungs screamed. Jun's hand pressed lightly on his arm, a signal: *wait.*
The beast lingered, sniffing, then trotted off. The hoofbeats faded, swallowed by the plain. Silence pooled again, broken only by the rasp of their own breathing.
"They'll circle back," Jun whispered. "We can't stay here."
"Where?" Luo Chen croaked. His throat felt made of ash.
Jun pointed north, where the faint dark line of hills shivered under the wind. "Dry river. Once we're in it, tracks vanish. That's our only chance."
Luo Chen wanted to ask *what then?* but the words died. The future had shrunk to the next step, the next breath.
They climbed out of the hollow, moving crouched. Each blade of grass seemed to hiss with accusation beneath their feet. Once, Luo Chen tripped and fell hard, cheek pressed against the soil. He wanted to stay there, wanted the earth to close over him and end the running. But Jun hauled him up, almost shaking him.
"Don't give them what they want," Jun snarled, voice low and fierce. "They already took enough."
Luo Chen's vision blurred, whether from tears or smoke he couldn't tell. He thought of his mother's last smile, the elder's last word, the fire's last embrace. Something cracked inside him—not gone, but reshaped. His legs moved again.
Above, clouds parted briefly. Starlight poured through, silvering the plain. In that light Luo Chen glimpsed something far away: a line of pale stones half-buried, like vertebrae of a giant. Old ruins, perhaps. He thought of the elder's stories—of empires that had burned before theirs, of seeds of flame carried through centuries. A shiver ran down him.
Jun tugged his sleeve. "Don't stare. Save your eyes for the ground."
Still, the glimpse lingered in Luo Chen's mind. The world was larger than his village had ever imagined. And now it was hunting him.
The land dipped without warning. One moment the plain stretched endless, the next it collapsed into a scar across the earth. The boys half-slid, half-fell into it, boots skidding on loose stone until they crashed against a slanted wall of clay. Dust burst upward in choking clouds.
When Luo Chen raised his head, he saw it: a riverbed, long dead. Its floor was stone and cracked mud, strewn with pebbles polished round by waters that had not flowed in generations. The bed wound north like a serpent's spine, vanishing into shadow.
Jun grinned despite the blood caked on his cheek. "The dry river," he panted. "We found it."
Relief shook Luo Chen's knees until he nearly toppled again. He leaned on the wall, chest heaving. The air here was cooler, damp lingering in cracks where shadow clung. It smelled faintly of old moss, a ghost of water long gone.
Jun crouched, pressing his ear to the ground. He stayed still, listening. Then he nodded. "No hoofbeats close. They'll take time to find the entrance. We bought a little space."
For the first time since the horn, silence did not feel like a trap. Luo Chen sank down onto a boulder, clutching the pendant. Its stone glimmered faintly in the starlight that filtered down the gully. He thought of his mother pressing it into his palm, of her hand brushing his hair. The memory cut sharper than any spear.
Jun knelt beside him, tugging at the torn hem of Luo Chen's tunic. "Your arm. Let me see."
"It's nothing," Luo Chen muttered.
"It's bleeding through *nothing,*" Jun snapped. He ripped a strip of cloth from his own sleeve and wrapped it clumsily but tightly around the gash. His fingers moved steady, practiced. "If you rot from fever, I'll have to drag you twice as hard."
Luo Chen swallowed hard. The words weren't tender, but they steadied him more than comfort would have. He stared at Jun's hands—knuckles scraped raw, veins standing out from strain. These were not the hands of a boy who had spent his life safe. They were the hands of someone who had always been fighting the world, even when it wasn't burning.
"I should have saved them," Luo Chen whispered. The sentence broke halfway. "My father, my mother, the elder—I just ran."
Jun tightened the knot on the bandage, making him hiss. "You think they didn't know? They gave you that stone for a reason. They burned so you wouldn't."
Luo Chen shook his head. His throat felt carved hollow. "Then why me? Why not someone stronger? Smarter?"
Jun met his gaze without flinching. "Because you were there. Because sometimes the ember doesn't get to choose—it just gets carried."
The words sat heavy between them, truer than either wanted. Luo Chen lowered his eyes, blinking against heat that had nothing to do with fire.
Above, a wolf howled. The sound rolled across the plain, caught and answered by another. The chase was not over.
Jun cursed under his breath. "They're sweeping the grass. Once they scent the river, they'll send the beasts down here." He grabbed Luo Chen's shoulder. "We move. Now."
They started along the riverbed, feet crunching softly on gravel. The walls rose on either side, steep enough to hide them from sight but also steep enough to trap them if riders thought to block the ends. Stars wheeled overhead in narrow strips.
As they walked, Luo Chen's eyes adjusted. He saw markings cut into the stone—lines, spirals, faint glyphs eroded by time. Not natural. His heart stuttered. "Jun… look."
Jun glanced, snorted softly. "Old bones of old people. Doesn't matter now."
But Luo Chen lingered on the sight. The elder had spoken of empires swallowed by flame, of ruins that still carried whispers. Here they were, under his feet. The pendant at his chest throbbed faintly, as if answering.
Another howl echoed, closer this time. Jun gripped his sling, jaw set. "Keep moving. Don't listen to ghosts. The living are enough trouble."
Still, Luo Chen could not shake the feeling: the river was not only dead. It was waiting.
The dry riverbed narrowed, walls squeezing closer until they could touch both sides with outstretched arms. The moon slid from behind clouds, thin as a blade, throwing pale light across the stones. That was when Luo Chen saw them—bones.
At first only one, a bleached femur jutting from gravel. Then more: ribs collapsed into arcs, skulls staring upward with empty sockets. They were not animal remains. The jawlines, the length of limb—human. Some were half-buried, others sprawled in broken heaps. Rusted helms clung to a few skulls, their crowns dented inward as if crushed by great force.
Jun slowed, sling taut in his fist. "What in the…" His voice thinned. Even he, who laughed at danger, did not joke here.
Luo Chen crouched, brushing dust from a corroded breastplate. Faint etchings appeared—spirals and runes, not of their village. The elder's tales echoed: *once there were empires that burned brighter than fire, and fell faster than ash.*
His pendant stirred. Heat pulsed against his chest, steady, deliberate, as if the stone recognized the marks. The red vein within glowed faintly, painting his fingers when he lifted it. For an instant he swore he heard a voice, low and layered, murmuring beyond understanding.
Jun noticed. "Does it… always do that?"
"No," Luo Chen whispered. His skin prickled, a shiver running along the old sigil carved into his arm by the elder's blood. For a heartbeat, the glyphs on the armor seemed to shimmer back, as though answering.
Jun grabbed his shoulder. "Put it away. We don't need ghosts, we need miles."
But Luo Chen's thoughts spun. The elder's last words: *You are the seed.* Was this what he meant? That the past itself would call to him?
Before he could answer, a wolf's growl rolled down the riverbed. Echo made it impossible to tell distance—one bend away, or ten. More followed, a chorus swelling.
Jun swore, dragging him forward. "No time for staring." They sprinted along the bed, weaving between bones. Pebbles skittered, noise too loud in the hush.
They rounded a curve—and stopped short.
Ahead lay a collapse: boulders and tangled roots blocking the channel. The river had caved here long ago, forming a wall twice their height. No way around but up.
Jun assessed fast. "We climb. Now."
He scrambled first, toes digging for purchase, fingers clawing roots. Luo Chen followed, slower, palms slick with sweat. His breath rasped loud as drumbeats. Halfway up he slipped, knee banging stone. Pain shot bright.
Jun leaned down, grabbed his wrist. "Don't look down. One more push." His eyes locked with Luo Chen's, fierce. "They'll be here any breath."
From below came the patter of paws. A wolf rounded the bend, eyes glowing green. It snarled, leaping for the rocks, claws scrabbling. Others poured behind, shadows with teeth.
Luo Chen hauled himself upward, Jun dragging until both tumbled over the crest. They lay gasping on flat stone, stars wheeling above.
The howls swelled below, joined now by hoofbeats. The riders had found the trail. Torches glimmered between grasses, scattering sparks. A horn bellowed, shaking the night.
Jun rolled to his knees. "Run the ridge. Don't stop."
They staggered forward, legs burning. The dry river split into two paths, one winding shallow, the other plunging deep. Luo Chen hesitated, chest seizing with doubt. The pendant pulsed again, tugging faintly toward the deeper cut.
"I think—" he began.
"No thinking," Jun cut him off. His voice was harsh but his hand steady on Luo Chen's back. "We move or we die."
But Luo Chen's step shifted, almost involuntary, toward the deeper gorge. He didn't know why. Only that the stone pulled, and the elder's voice echoed like flame on wind: *The seed must walk.*
Behind, the horn blew again. Louder, closer. Among the riders' shouts rose one deeper, harsher—the bellow of the tusked giant.
The sound crawled across the night like iron dragged on stone.