Run.
The word hammered into his skull with every breath torn from his burning lungs.
Branches lashed his face as he burst through the undergrowth, boots slipping on wet leaves and half-buried roots. The forest was alive—creaking, whispering, watching—and it did not care whether he lived or died.
Behind him, voices sounded.
Loud. Sharp. Relentless.
They weren't close enough to see him yet—but they would be. He knew it with a certainty colder than fear. The shouting wasn't meant to guide them.
It was meant to break him.
The hounds howled.
The sound punched straight through his spine.
He stumbled, caught himself against a tree, and forced his legs to move again. His chest felt like it was splitting open. Every breath scraped his throat raw, tasting of iron and panic.
'This can't go on'.
The thought surfaced dimly, drowned beneath exhaustion. His vision swam as he slammed into mud and cold air, choking, gasping—alive.
And still running.
"Spread out! He's injured!"
A man's voice cut through the forest, sharp and practiced.
They were close.
Too close.
He ducked hard to the left as something whistled past his head and thudded into a tree.
An arrow.
He hadn't even heard the bowstring.
His heart lurched. He veered downhill, letting gravity take him, half-falling as much as running. Thorns tore into his arms. Warm blood soaked his sleeves, sticky and hot against his skin.
The hounds were closing in.
He could hear them clearly now—snarling, panting, driven mad by scent and training. These weren't animals.
They were weapons.
Think.
His mind clawed for order through the terror. He was slower than them. Weaker. Unarmed. This body—his body—was malnourished, exhausted, trembling with fever or hunger or both.
If he kept running, he would die.
The forest thinned suddenly. Moonlight spilled across broken stone.
A cliff.
He skidded to a halt at the edge, stones rattling loose and vanishing into the abyss below. Wind roared upward from the darkness, carrying the distant sound of rushing water.
A river.
Far down.
Too far.
He turned.
Torches flared between the trees. Orange light cut through shadow as armored figures emerged one by one, calm and unhurried now.
Hunters who knew their prey was cornered.
Six of them.
No—seven.
Steel gleamed. Leather creaked.
The hounds strained against their leads—creatures torn straight from nightmares. Tiger-like bodies wrapped in mist-like fur. Horns jutted from their temples. Jagged teeth lined their maws like a shark's grin. Their eyes reflected torchlight like burning embers.
A man stepped forward, taller than the rest. His cloak bore an insignia—sharp and angular, stitched in silver thread.
"Well done," the man said mildly. "For a slave, you ran farther than expected."
The words weren't cruel.
That frightened him more than shouting ever could.
"You deployed four hounds for a slave?" His voice came out hoarse, barely his own. "I don't even know if I should laugh or cry."
The man tilted his head, studying him like a cracked tool.
"You're a funny one," he chuckled. "You are the property of House Banfield. That alone is reason enough."
'Reason enough to be hunted like an animal?'
The thought burned quietly in his chest.
One of the soldiers snorted. "He doesn't look like much."
"No," the leader agreed calmly. "But appearances are often misleading."
The hounds lunged, snapping.
His body moved before his mind could catch up. He stepped backward, heel scraping empty air.
Stones fell.
Then silence.
So this was it.
If he begged, he would die.
If he surrendered, he would die.
If he jumped…
He might die.
The odds were terrible.
But they were his.
He met the leader's eyes and forced himself to straighten, even as his legs shook.
"I'll remember this," he said quietly.
The man raised an eyebrow, amused.
"Remember what?"
Torchlight flickered across his face as he took the final step back.
"That you hunted me," he said. "That you didn't hesitate."
He raised his middle finger and aimed it at the tall man.
"If I survive this," he snarled, "I'll come back for your ass."
Then he fell.
Wind tore the scream from his throat as darkness swallowed him whole.
Above, the hunters rushed forward, peering over the edge.
"Damn," one of them muttered. "That bitch really jumped."
Another soldier swallowed hard. "What are we gonna do, Captain?"
The tall man remained still, staring into the abyss, brows furrowed.
"…Let's go back first," he said at last. "We'll report everything to Lord Banfield."
He turned his back on the cliff and headed into the forest.
The other six soldiers hesitated—then followed.