Dawn crept softly through the forest, brushing pale light across the canopy.
Devon stirred, his body stiff and heavy, every breath scraping against his chest like broken glass. The chill of the night still clung to him, and when he tried to move, pain lanced through every muscle. For a moment, he thought he'd died, until the sharp ache reminded him that death would have been kinder.
His throat burned, dry and swollen. He could barely swallow. When he opened his cracked lips, no sound came, just the faintest rasp of air. His tongue felt like sandpaper, and his vision was swimming in and out of focus.
Water.
That single thought pushed through the haze of exhaustion clouding his mind. He needed water. Just enough to survive one more day.
With trembling hands, he dragged himself forward, dirt caking under his nails as he crawled through fallen leaves and roots. The world spun with each movement, his body weak from hunger and blood loss. But still he moved. Inch by inch. Breath by breath.
He didn't care if it was a puddle, a stream, or even stagnant rainwater, anything that could ease the fire in his throat.
The forest floor tilted downward, the faint trickle of water teasing his ears. Hope flared, faint but stubborn. Devon followed the sound, clawing through the underbrush until he reached a small creek glinting faintly in the morning light.
He almost cried.
With what little strength remained, he leaned down and scooped handfuls of water to his lips. It was cold, harsh, metallic, but it tasted like life. He drank until he could no longer hold himself up, collapsing beside the stream, his fingers still half-buried in the mud.
The sound of rushing water became a lullaby. His heartbeat slowed, steady but faint. The pain dulled into numbness, and his eyes fluttered shut.
For the first time in a long while, there was no anger, no fear, just quiet.
The forest wrapped around him, the scent of moss and river mist soft against his senses. The wind whispered through the leaves above, carrying the faint cry of distant birds.
Devon let it carry him.
As he drifted into sleep, he didn't pray for rescue. He only prayed that if he woke again, the world would be kinder than the one he left behind.
And with that final thought, the omega of Redstone Pack, no longer a son, no longer a mate, no longer anyone, surrendered to the forest's embrace.
Devon woke with a start, his body jerking upright as the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the forest. His pulse spiked instantly, eyes darting into the dark between the trees.
It was night again.
The air was colder, thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and… blood. The faint rustle of leaves was drowned out by voices, sharp, low, and urgent. He caught fragments of them, carried by the wind.
"Don't let him escape!"
"He ran this way, check the riverbank!"
Devon froze. Panic clawed at his throat before reason could. For a moment, he thought it was the Redstone enforcers, that they had come to finish what exile couldn't. His hands shook as he pressed himself against the trunk of a tree, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
He should run. Hide. It was what he'd always done.
But then… another sound reached him. A cry. Small, terrified, and raw.
A child... Why would a child be here?
His head snapped toward the direction of the sound. Through the shadows, he saw movement, flashes of dark cloaks between the trees, blades glinting under moonlight, and in their midst, a tiny figure stumbling on trembling legs.
The boy couldn't have been older than five. His little body was covered in mud, his white clothes torn, his small hands scraped from falling. He was running blindly, gasping, his cries echoing with fear.
Devon's breath hitched. He didn't need to think. His body moved before his mind caught up. He stumbled forward, half-crawling, half-running through the undergrowth. Every step sent knives of pain shooting up his legs, his wounds reopening. But he didn't care.
The assassins closed in, their weapons raised. One of them drew back his arm, blade flashing toward the child's back.
Devon lunged.
A snarl tore from his throat, raw and feral, as he crashed into the man before the knife could strike. The force of it sent both of them tumbling to the ground. Pain seared through Devon's ribs, but adrenaline kept him moving. He clawed and bit, drawing blood as the assassin cursed and struck back.
The others turned in surprise, momentarily thrown off by the sudden interference. The boy stumbled backward, eyes wide with shock as the strange, bloodied man shielded him from the killers.
Devon didn't know who the child was, he didn't care. All he knew was that he wouldn't stand by and watch someone else be beaten helplessly, the way he had been all his life.
If death was coming for him, then let it come.
He would not die crawling. He would die fighting, even if no one would remember his name.
"Run," he rasped, turning his head just enough to meet the boy's frightened gaze. "Run and don't look back."
The child hesitated, trembling. "B-but..."
"Go!"
The assassins advanced again. Devon barely managed to block the next strike, his hands slick with blood. He fought with nothing but desperation, claws, teeth, and instinct. The metallic scent of death thickened in the air as he took blow after blow, until his vision began to fade at the edges.
One blade pierced his side. Another slashed across his shoulder. He staggered but stayed standing, chest heaving, blood dripping freely onto the forest floor. He wasn't strong. He wasn't fast. But he was no longer afraid.
If the Moon Goddess wanted his life, she could take it now, but at least, this time, it would mean something.
As darkness pressed in again, the last thing Devon saw was the little boy's face, terrified, but alive, disappearing into the trees.
Then the world tilted. The sound of clashing steel blurred into silence, and Devon fell, the forest spinning away into black.