The forest deepened as if it were swallowing them whole.
Oscar ran with the sound of his own breath roaring in his ears, each inhale scraping his lungs raw, each exhale burning like he was coughing sparks. The moon hung overhead, full and merciless, casting silver fractures through the canopy. Shadows stretched and snapped as he tore through them, boots pounding earth, branches whipping past his face like open hands trying to grab him back.
Behind him—Arthur did not stop.
Oscar risked a glance over his shoulder and felt his stomach sink. The man was still there, still moving with that same relentless pace, eyes glowing red in the moonlight like embers that refused to cool.
"Damn it," Oscar muttered. "What is wrong with you?"
He veered sharply, ducking between two close-set trees, hoping the tighter path would slow him down. It didn't. Arthur slipped through like he belonged to the woods, his stride fluid, his balance uncanny.
I thought the smoke would knock him out like the rest, Oscar thought, panic creeping in around the edges. Everyone else was laughing, singing, falling into the dirt.
Arthur wasn't falling not even a little stumble.
If anything, he looked sharper.
"He must have a high tolerance," Oscar gasped, vaulting a fallen trunk and nearly losing his footing. "Or he's just built different."
Arthur's voice cut through the night.
"Stop!"
The word cracked like a whip, carrying more command than desperation. Oscar didn't slow. He couldn't. If he stopped now, this whole night—everything—would end with iron cuffs or worse.
I'm never going to lose this guy if I don't do something, Oscar realized grimly.
What neither of them understood—not yet—was that Arthur was affected.
He was high.
The smoke from the burning fields had been thick with a particular strain, one cultivated for alertness rather than sedation. Sativa. Bright. Sharp. Energizing. Where other blends dragged the body into the dirt and wrapped the mind in cotton, this one did the opposite. It lifted. It focused. It turned the world vivid and narrow all at once.
Arthur felt it humming through his blood like a live wire.
His thoughts didn't scatter—they aligned. Every sound Oscar made etched itself into his awareness: the hitch in breath, the uneven footfall, the panic bleeding through movement. His muscles burned, but the burn felt purposeful, almost welcome, like proof that he was exactly where he needed to be.
He wasn't sluggish.
He wasn't dulled.
He was locked in.
The forest became a map written in scent and sound. Broken twigs pointed the way. Bent grass whispered direction. Arthur's breathing stayed steady, his stride relentless, the high sharpening him into something frighteningly efficient.
Oscar burst through a thicket and nearly stumbled down a shallow slope. He caught himself, hands scraping bark, then forced his legs to keep moving. His calves screamed.
His vision tunneled.
Think, he told himself. Now or never.
His hand brushed against his hip.
The gun.
He hadn't wanted it. Didn't trust it. He preferred fists, movement, control. A gun was final in a way that made his stomach twist.
I really don't want to kill him, Oscar thought as he ran. I'll fire a warning shot. If that doesn't work… I'll aim for a leg.
That was the plan, at least.
He skidded around a wide oak, boots slipping on damp leaves, then suddenly spun on his heel. The motion was clumsy, rushed, adrenaline making his hands shake as he yanked the gun free.
Arthur's eyes widened a fraction.
Oscar fired.
BANG!
The shot cracked through the forest, deafening in the close air. The bullet slammed into a tree trunk inches from Arthur's head, bark exploding outward in a shower of splinters.
Arthur halted instantly, reflexes snapping into place. He dove behind a thick pine, heart hammering—not with fear, but with sudden clarity.
A gun, he thought quickly assessing the situation.
He pressed his back to the trunk, breathing controlled, eyes tracking Oscar through the gaps between trees.
Oscar's heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might break ribs. "Shit," he hissed, raising the gun again, trying to follow Arthur's movement as the man darted from cover to cover.
Arthur moved beautifully.
The high made everything crisp. He sprinted in short bursts, timing his movement to Oscar's breathing, the subtle shake in the gun's aim. He closed the distance in calculated surges, never exposing himself for long.
Oscar cursed loudly, panic bleeding into his thoughts. He's still coming.
Arthur burst from behind a tree, closer now—too close.
Oscar raised the gun, aimed lower, toward Arthur's leg, just like he'd promised himself.
He pulled the trigger.
Nothing.
His finger squeezed again.
Nothing.
Oscar stared at the weapon in disbelief. "Seriously?" he shouted. "This damn thing only had one bullet left?"
Arthur was almost on him.
"I got you now!" Arthur yelled, voice sharp with triumph as he lunged.
Oscar's mind went blank.
"Screw it!" He said hurling the gun.
The metal clipped Arthur square in the face with a dull, wet crack. Arthur staggered back, hands flying to his nose as blood immediately spilled between his fingers.
"What the—" Arthur choked, stumbling and dropping hard onto his back.
Oscar didn't wait.
He turned and ran.
Arthur lay there for a moment, stunned, staring up at the moon through the branches. Blood dripped onto his cheek, warm and sticky.
"Did he really just—." He started laughing.
It bubbled up uncontrollably, sharp and breathless, the absurdity of it slicing through his focus at last. "Did you really just throw a gun at me?" he gasped between laughs.
The sativa finally loosened its grip, the edge softening as the adrenaline bled off. Arthur rolled onto his side, wiping blood from his nose, chest heaving.
He could chase continues if he wanted.
He knew he could.
But he didn't.
Instead, he lay back against the forest floor, laughter fading into a breathless grin. "I've had enough madness for one night," he muttered.
He'd instead memorized the man's face anyway. Promising to arrest him if their paths every crossed again.
Oscar didn't look back.
He ran until his lungs felt like they might collapse, until the forest thinned and the ground leveled out beneath his feet. When he finally burst into a wide clearing, moonlight flooded over him unobstructed, silvering the grass and washing the sweat from his skin in cold light.
He bent forward, hands resting on his knees, gulping air.
"That… took longer than expected," he panted.
His eyes lifted toward the distant glow of San Cordellion, lights flickering like fallen stars against the horizon. The palace rose faintly above the city, elegant and unreachable.
I might not make it in time, he thought, dread tightening his chest.
Then he heard it.
Hooves.
Not human footsteps.
Hooves pounding earth with familiar rhythm.
Oscar's head snapped toward the sound just as a horse broke into the clearing, mane tossing, breath steaming faintly in the night air.
"Butterscotch?" Oscar breathed.
The horse slowed as it reached him, golden coat catching the moonlight, eyes bright and unmistakably smug.
Oscar stared, stunned. "How did you even—" He shook his head, laughing despite himself. "Did you break out of your stall again? I fixed that thing two months ago for that cheap noble."
Butterscotch snorted softly, as if offended.
Oscar stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the horse's neck, pressing his forehead into warm muscle. "You have no idea how good it is to see you."
He pulled back, meeting the horse's gaze.
"Can you get me to the palace?"
Butterscotch neighed, sharp and affirmative.
Oscar grinned.
He climbed up bareback, gripping the mane, legs locking in instinctively. "All right," he said softly. "Let's go rescue a princess."
Butterscotch gave one final, defiant neigh—
And then they were off, hooves thundering as horse and rider tore into the night, racing toward the lights of San Cordellion and whatever awaited them beyond the gilded gates.