Milt didn't breathe.
The two men below moved with purpose, not haste. One followed the stream's edge, eyes fixed on the mud and broken reeds. The other stayed a few steps back, scanning higher ground—exactly where Milt was hiding.
Smoke drifted from their clothes. Old leather creaked softly. Real hunters.
Milt's muscles tightened, ready to spring, but his mind slammed the instinct down. Two humans meant tools, coordination, and noise that carried. If he ran now, they'd hear. If he stayed, they'd see.
The man with the spear stopped.
He tilted his head slightly, as if listening to something that wasn't there.
Milt felt the pressure stir under his skin.
The hunters split without a word. The tracker stayed low by the water, fingers brushing soil and stone. The other angled uphill, boots careful, weight controlled. They were boxing the area in.
Milt eased backward along the rock, inch by inch, keeping his body pressed flat. Leaves crunched under his elbow. He froze, counting heartbeats. No reaction.
Good. Not seen yet.
He traced an escape in his head. Downstream meant crossing open ground. Uphill meant noise. The only clean option was lateral—sliding along the rocks until he could drop into thicker brush and circle wide.
He drew in the pressure, carefully this time. Not all of it. Just enough.
The world sharpened. Edges grew clearer. He shifted his weight and felt his claws bite stone instead of slipping.
He moved.
One slow slide. Then another. The gap widened between him and the pocket where he'd slept. He reached the edge of the boulder cluster and lowered himself, letting his weight hang for a breath before dropping.
His feet hit dirt without a sound.
He didn't stop. He flowed into the brush, keeping low, letting branches brush his back instead of snapping. The pressure trembled, hungry to be used harder. He ignored it.
A voice cut through the trees.
"Trail breaks here."
Milt angled away, forcing himself to think like prey. Prey didn't run straight. Prey used confusion.
He doubled back toward the stream, stepped into the water, then crossed and climbed again, this time steeper. Each step burned. His calves screamed. The pressure bled into his legs whether he wanted it or not, smoothing his movement but draining him faster.
Another voice, closer. "He's circling."
They were good.
The slope ended in a fallen tree bridging a narrow ravine. Milt didn't slow. He ran along the trunk, claws digging into bark, and leapt off the far side into a curtain of vines.
He landed hard. Pain shot up his spine, but he rolled and kept moving. Behind him, a shout went up—sharp, excited.
"He jumped!"
That was fine. Noise worked both ways.
Milt pushed deeper into the ravine, then abruptly turned and climbed again, hands and feet finding holds his body seemed built to use. He reached a shelf of stone and collapsed against it, chest heaving.
Below, the hunters argued in low voices. One wanted to follow the ravine. The other insisted on climbing.
Milt didn't wait to hear the decision.
He forced the pressure into his arms and pulled himself up a final ledge, then crawled into a tight space under roots and rock. He dragged leaves over the opening and went still.
Minutes passed. Then more.
Boots scraped stone nearby. A shadow fell across the roots. Someone sniffed.
Milt held the pressure, every muscle screaming, vision tunneling.
Finally, the shadow moved on.
The moment the sounds faded, the pressure collapsed.
Milt gagged, barely catching himself before vomiting onto the dirt. His head pounded as if something were trying to split it open from the inside. His hands shook violently, claws scraping stone.
Too much.
He curled on his side, tail tight against his body, waiting for the spinning to stop. It took longer than he liked. When he finally pushed himself up, his limbs felt weak and unresponsive, as if borrowed.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tasted blood again. His nose had started bleeding, slow but steady.
Not free. Never free.
He listened. No voices. No footsteps. But the forest wasn't calm anymore. Birds were gone. Insects were quiet.
The hunters hadn't found him—but they hadn't left either. They were searching differently now, slower, wider. Smarter.
And they'd learned something important.
This wasn't just a beast.
Something that could think had slipped their net.
Next time, they wouldn't underestimate it.
Milt forced himself to move before weakness pinned him in place. He descended the far side of the ridge, keeping to rock where he could, leaving as little trace as possible.
Hours later, the forest thinned.
Through the trees, he saw a break in the green—packed earth, wheel ruts, and the faint outline of a road. Human-made. Traveled.
Safety and danger tangled together in his chest. Roads meant people. People meant shelter, food… and eyes.
He crouched at the treeline, watching dust drift in the distance.
If the hunters reached this road, they'd spread the word.
If Milt crossed it, he'd step straight into the world.
A horn sounded far off—short, sharp, deliberate.
Milt realized it wasn't a signal to search anymore, but a call to gather.