Branwen POV
I'm still in the tree. Still trying to decide if I'm a lunatic or a genius. My arse is numb. My thighs are cramping. Two very dangerous, very sexy bastards are pacing the forest somewhere below me, plotting how to make me theirs like I'm the last sweetcake at a harvest fair.
I shift slightly on the branch and exhale through my nose, steady and slow. My options are...
1. Stay here until they get bored (unlikely).
2. Climb down and risk capture (ha, no).
3. Float the fuck away like a glorified leaf and hope I don't die mid air.
Yeah, that last one sounds just stupid enough to be my best shot. I start running through my mental spellbook, sifting between charms, illusions, wardings. Nothing explosive, yet. Just something light, subtle and quiet.
Finally, I settle on it, Weightless Drift. Haven't used it since I was a teenager learning air spells with the moss-coven, but it should work, if I don't panic halfway through and plummet like a sack of potatoes. "Alright then," I whisper to myself. "You wanna live? You float."
I press one hand to the bark beneath me, cloak myself in a hush spell, then summon the magic from my gut. That's where it's always lived, coiled and waiting. The spell stirs. Glows faintly in my chest. I bite my lip, hold my breath, and step off the branch.
It feels like dying. Then flying. Air rushes around me, cold and electric. I guide my descent with little nudges of wind, using branches as steering posts, floating sideways four trees over like a leaf caught in a storm. The sounds of the beast lords fade behind me and become muffled and distant. My heart pounds, but the magic holds.
When I reach the next tree, I grab a thick branch, swing myself in, and cling to the trunk like it owes me rent. Then I slide down fast but quiet, my feet landing in a patch of moss with only the softest whisper.
I don't wait. Don't breathe. I turn, vanish into the trees, and make my way deeper into the Killground. Getting far from tiger eyes and wolf snarls. My pulse finally slows as silence swallows me. They won't catch me today.
Not if I have anything to say about it.
Nythor POV
She's gone. I look up to the same branch where she last perched, my nostrils flaring. Nothing. Not even a stray curl or broken leaf to mark her escape. "Damn it all," I snarl.
"She's clever," a voice rumbles behind me. I don't need to turn. Fenrick's scent hits me a second before his heavy boots crunch leaves behind me. "Too clever," I mutter.
"She floated away," he says bluntly, eyes scanning the tree line. "I caught the tail end of her scent trail. Air magic. No prints. No noise." We both pause, sniffing, frustrated animals in finely cut skin. The trail's cold.
Fenrick crosses his arms. "She's wild. Insane and fucking infuriating."
"Witch born," I add, my jaw clenching. "Clever enough to survive."
"She keeps this up," Fenrick growls, "she might actually make it through the Games."
We share a look. Neither of us likes that. Not one bit. "We can't have that," I say simply. "She's ours." Fenrick snorts, then laughs, dry and sharp. "Ours. Like that's not the godsdamn problem."
I don't answer. Not yet. My claws twitch beneath my skin. Two Warlords. One mate. It should be war. Instead, here we are. Stalking the same witch. Speaking in the same tongue. Sharing the same ache. "That's stress for another day," Fenrick mutters, raking a hand through his black hair.
"Agreed." A deep, bone shaking roar echoes through the forest, too far to see, but close enough to feel in the marrow. We both freeze.
"Lion," I say. Fenrick growls low. "Hadrian's awake." We glance around. No sign of her. Her scent has vanished. Like mist. "Fuck," I hiss.
"We've lost her trail." He grunts. "Let's find water. Regroup. Eat. We'll need strength if we're going to chase a ghost." I nod once and shift into motion, stalking toward the riverbed to the east. Because no matter how far she runs, we're not done.
Not by a long shot.
Branwen POV
The forest thickens around me the farther I move from their scent trails, and for once, I feel like I'm not being hunted. Not exactly safe, but alone. And right now, that's a win.
My feet press carefully into the moss as I slink between thick roots and fern beds, breath steady, ears perked for any break in the stillness. The magic in this place is ancient and buzzing low under the dirt. I feel it humming in my bones like it's watching me. Testing me. "Keep walking," I whisper to myself, brushing a bramble away.
Finally, the trees part slightly, and I spot it. There's a narrow stream glittering between two crooked rocks, weaving gently through the forest like a ribbon of silver. Relief hits me hard. My mouth is dry, my legs ache, and my stomach is threatening mutiny.
I kneel at the edge, dunk my canteen, and drink straight from the stream. The water's cold, clean and blessedly free of rot or blood. It tastes like life.
While I refill, I spot a cluster of berry bushes up the slope. Not the poisonous kind, either. Fat, red and ripe. My favorite. I snatch a few and stuff them in my mouth like a starving animal. Sweet, tart and perfect. Beyond the bushes, a patch of ground offers a small trove of buried nuts, hazelnuts and chestnuts mostly. They were likely stashed by some unfortunate woodland critter. I steal them without guilt. My survival > squirrel karma.
A few minutes later, my bag's heavier and my mood lighter. Until I hear it. A sound that cuts through the forest like a god's fist through clouds. A roar. Louder than the others. Deeper. Powerful enough to rattle the birds from their branches and send prey bolting.
Lion. Fuck. My head snaps toward the noise as adrenaline spikes. He's not far. Not close, either, but the kind of distance that can close quick. I bolt.
There's a massive tree not ten yards from me, with roots thick as wolves and branches twisted high. I sprint for it, clutching my berries and nuts to my chest like a goblin hoarder. I launch myself up the trunk with the strength of terror behind me.
My fingers grip bark. My foot slips. I curse under my breath, adjust, and haul myself higher. Near the top, I find it, a hollowed out section of the trunk, wide and dark like some ancient beast's gaping mouth. I slide into it fast, my heart hammering. Inside, it's dry. Sheltered. Smells like moss and time. The opening is just wide enough to see out of, but hidden enough that no one would see me unless they were in the damn tree with me.
Perfect. I sit. I breathe. I listen. The roar echoes again, farther now. Moving. Hunting. Not near me, not yet. I dump my haul into my lap, nuts, berries, a tiny chunk of dried fish from earlier. I devour it all like it's my last meal. It might be. When my stomach stops gnawing at itself, I take a long pull of water and wipe my mouth.
The hollowed trunk sways gently with the wind. My body aches. My limbs are heavy. I curl myself tighter inside the space, pull my cloak over me like a shroud, and press two fingers to the center of my chest. "Veil and vine, moss and mist," I whisper, "hide my scent, disguise my twist." Magic stirs and slides out from my skin like fog. I feel it weave around me, binding me to the bark and wood, cloaking me in stillness.
Then I close my eyes.
And for the first time in days, I sleep.