Lily followed the stream until the forest swallowed the last of the day.
At first, she ran.
The little watercourse twisted through moss, stones, ferns, and roots, hurrying downhill as if it knew exactly where civilization was and simply refused to explain. Lily stayed beside it, bare feet light over the damp ground, Art's black cloak tied around her small body like stolen night.
Above the trees, the sky darkened.
The gold of sunset faded into bruised purple. Then gray clouds rolled over what little light remained, thick and heavy with rain. The forest lost its shape minute by minute. Tree trunks became black pillars. Bushes became crouching monsters. Roots vanished beneath shadow, waiting to trip anyone arrogant enough to move too fast.
Lily slowed.
She hated that.
"Civilization," she muttered between breaths, "better be close."
It was not close. Or if it was, it was being very rude about showing itself.
Soon the forest became too dark to run. Lily tried anyway for a little while, because surrendering to basic survival logic felt like losing. Then her foot struck a slick stone beside the stream.
The world dropped, as Lily fell hard. Her knee smashed against rock. Her hands scraped over gravel. Her face hit wet earth close enough to the stream that cold water splashed her cheek. Pain burst through her body, sharp and bright.
She cried out before she could stop herself.
For a moment, she lay there trembling, teeth clenched, breath shaking. Her knee burned. Her palms stung. The taste of blood touched her mouth where she had bitten the inside of her cheek.
"Bad stream," she whispered. "Betrayal water."
She pushed herself upright slowly and sat in the dark, clutching her knee. She could not see the damage properly, but she could feel the scrapes and the sticky warmth of blood on her skin.
Wonderful, brilliant, professional expedition.
Then rain began to fall. At first, it whispered through the leaves. Then the sky opened. Cold rain poured down through the forest, drumming on branches, splashing into the stream, turning the world into noise. Lily looked up at the invisible clouds with deep personal hatred.
"Really?"
The clouds did not apologize, and to her dismay, she had no fire tools, no tent, not even a proper blanket except Art's cloak, which was not a blanket no matter how comfortable and annoyingly useful it happened to be.
So Lily did the only sensible thing left.
She crawled beneath the thickest tree she could find, tucked herself between two large roots, and pulled Art's cloak around her like a blanket.
For a while, she was nothing but a small black bundle under the rain, hidden in the dark with her knees pressed to her chest and her pride badly wounded.
The cloak was warm, too warm. Worse, it still smelled like him. The scent wrapped around her with the cloak, settling over her like a memory she had not given permission to enter. It should have annoyed her. It did annoy her, mostly, but it also made her feel safe.
Lily frowned into the fabric.
"Stupid Art," she whispered.
She should hate him. That would be simple.
He had invaded her land, eaten her food, pinned her to the ground, thrown her into the lake, spanked her like some misbehaving child, and then made her feel stupid for not knowing things everyone else seemed to know.
She should dislike him severely.
Yes, severely was good. Severely was reasonable, severely sounded legally defensible. But the moment Lily decided that, her mind betrayed her.
She remembered Art rising from the lake, soaked and furious, fear still bright in his eyes because he had thought she had drowned. She remembered how strong he looked, broad-shouldered and solid in a way that made him seem almost unfairly built. She remembered how easily his hands had caught her, as if she weighed no more than a bundle of feathers, and how he had pulled her close for one breathless moment, not cruelly. That was the worst part.
He had been angry, yes. Rude, definitely. Criminally smug, absolutely. But he had also been careful. Even when he overpowered her, even when he threw her into the lake, even when he scolded her, he had not done it like someone who wanted to hurt her. He had done it like someone who cared whether she got hurt.
Lily's face warmed beneath the cloak.
Then she remembered him sitting beside her later, eating the food she had made. The way he had praised her cooking. The way he had said her work was not useless. The way he had called her clever, fierce, cute.
That last one slipped into her chest like a tiny ember and refused to go out.
Her stomach fluttered strangely. A small, helpless giggle escaped before she could stop it.
Then Lily froze in horror.
"No," she whispered at once. "No weird body nonsense."
But the feeling did not listen. Her heart kept beating too fast, and warmth spread through her until she had to squeeze her eyes shut in embarrassment.
Why had he cared? Why had he looked at her that way? Why had he left his cloak behind? Why had his words made her feel as if something inside her had begun glowing?
She did not understand it. All she had done was feed him. And attack him. And kick him. And threaten him with chickens.
Maybe she should apologize for some of that, maybe just a little. Although not for the berry crime part, that was still his fault. Still, she wanted to see him again, not because she liked him. Obviously not.
She wanted to see him because they were rivals now. Yes. That made sense. Perfect legal explanation. Art was her rival. One day she would challenge him again, and this time she would not lose so easily. She would train harder, learn proper spear techniques, invent forest martial arts, and maybe cook something so good he would be forced to admit she was impressive.
Not just cute, but impressive, strong, useful, and even dangerous. Someone worth respecting.
Maybe one day she would be the one standing over him in victory, smiling down while he stared up at her in complete shock.
The thought made her face burn hotter. Lily squeaked and buried herself deeper inside the cloak.
"No, no, no. Sleep now. No Art thoughts. Think of trees, rocks, money, food. Very boring things."
Rain whispered through the leaves. The stream murmured nearby. Somewhere in the dark forest, the road to civilization waited.
Art and Reinheart were gone.
It was only Lily now. Lily, the rain, the cloak, and the long journey ahead.
She hugged the warm fabric tighter despite herself.
"Rival," she whispered firmly. "That all. Stupid handsome rival. And maybe friend. If he is nice. And if I decide to be generous."
The thought made her smile faintly into the cloak.
Maybe he would accept her. Maybe he really had meant the kind things he said. Maybe, when they met again, she would be stronger, smarter, braver, and ready to face him properly.
With that uncertain hope tucked close beside her embarrassment, Lily closed her eyes and forced herself toward sleep.
Time passed in the hush of rain and leaves.
When morning came, it arrived softly, pale and misty beneath the trees. Lily woke slowly, warm inside the folds of Art's cloak.
That was the first surprise.
The second was that something small, soft, and breathing was pressed against her side.
Her eyes opened slowly. For one drowsy moment she did not understand where she was. The stream murmured nearby. Birds sang above. Pale sunlight filtered through mist so thick that the forest seemed half-dreaming.
Then something furry twitched against her ribs.
Lily looked down.
Three fox kits were curled against her under the edge of the cloak, little red bodies tucked close like living plush toys. One had its nose buried against her side. Another slept with its paws in the air. The third opened one eye, yawned silently, then went back to sleep as if Lily had been officially approved as furniture.
Lily froze.
Then her whole face lit up.
"Aww."
Near the stream, Sleemo stood drinking, dark ears flicking. The small fox lifted her head, saw Lily awake, and gave a soft little sound that seemed far too pleased for a creature who had broken into her sleeping arrangements without permission.
Lily carefully touched one kit with a fingertip.
So soft.
Unfairly soft.
"You invade blanket," she whispered. "But cute, so legal."
Sleemo trotted closer and bumped her head against Lily's hand, clearly demanding equal treatment. Lily smiled despite the cold and scratched behind the fox's ears.
For a little while, the morning was peaceful.
The rain had stopped. Mist covered the forest in pale layers, hiding the trees beyond a few dozen steps. Water slipped over stones. Birds called from branches. The air smelled of wet leaves, cold earth, and running water. Art's cloak had not soaked through completely, and the foxes had helped keep her warm.
Then a woodpecker landed on a nearby tree and began attacking it with the enthusiasm of a tiny hammer demon.
Lily flinched.
The fox kits woke at once, blinking and yawning. Sleemo looked offended. The woodpecker continued as if personally responsible for announcing the morning to the entire forest.
Lily glared up at it.
"Too loud, Mister Woodpecker. Morning already know it morning."
The bird ignored her.
With a sigh, Lily sat up and checked herself. Her knee had dried blood on it. So did her palms. But the wounds were gone. No open cuts. No swelling. Only faint pink marks where the skin had closed during the night.
Lily stared at her hands.
The blood from last night was still there, dried in faint brown smears across her palms and knee, but the wounds themselves were gone. No cuts. No swelling. Not even a proper scab to prove she had suffered bravely in the wilderness.
The light-heart again.
Ever since she had come into this world, her body healed too well. Scrapes vanished. Bruises faded. Sickness never stayed. Her teeth remained strong despite the tragic absence of toothpaste, and her skin stayed soft no matter how much mud, smoke, climbing, digging, fighting, building, and surviving she did.
Useful, yes. But also deeply unfair.
"How get warrior hands with no callus?" she muttered, flexing her fingers. "Stupid miracle body."
After years of forest work and several important small-scale animal wars, she should have looked hardened, dangerous like a tiny veteran. Instead, she probably looked like some spoiled noble girl who had never done anything harder than sip tea and complain about ribbons.
Magic was helpful.
Magic was not very manly.
With a sigh, Lily checked her pouches. One still held water. The other held her precious travel food: a few oversized strawberries, some peas, and the dried fish.
The moment she opened it, Sleemo's fox kits looked up.
Three little narrow faces turned toward her at once, all pointed noses, oversized ears, and soft reddish-brown fur still dark around the legs and muzzle. Their eyes were not truly black, but deep smoky blue-gray in the morning light, bright and pleading above tiny black noses.
Lily stared back.
"No," she said. "This expedition food. Very important."
The smallest kit blinked. Its white-tipped tail gave one hopeful little twitch.
Lily lasted three seconds.
"Fine," she grumbled, handing over the fish. "You are criminals. Cute criminals."
Sleemo accepted the offering with noble dignity, while the kits devoured it like tiny red demons. Lily kept the strawberries and peas for herself, eating slowly because there was not much. The strawberry was huge, sweet, and wonderful, but it also reminded her that once it was gone, it was gone.
"Professional breakfast," she said, trying to sound confident. "Small, but elite."
The foxes did not seem impressed. After eating, Sleemo gathered her kits with soft little sounds and led them into the mist. One cub looked back once before vanishing between the ferns.
Lily watched them go until the forest swallowed them.
Then she stood.
She was still on a mission.
She tightened Art's cloak around herself, checked the rusty knife at her waist, and followed the stream again.
The morning passed slowly. Mist clung to the ground, wet stones slipped beneath her feet, and roots gleamed with rain. Lily no longer ran like a heroic idiot. She moved carefully beside the water, drinking from the stream whenever thirst began to scratch at her throat and saving her pouch for later.
Every so often, animals appeared through the fog.
A rabbit watched from beneath a fern. Birds hopped from branch to branch above her. Squirrels flickered along the trunks. Once, she saw a fox shape pause in the distance before melting away again. They did not follow her exactly, but they were there, quiet little witnesses along the path.
Her animals had spread far from the lake over the years. Chickens, rabbits, foxes, mice, all of them moving through the forest in their own small kingdoms. Seeing them should have made her feel less alone.
It helped.
A little.
Then, far away, a rooster crowed.
Lily stopped.
"Mister Terminator?"
No. Too far. Too faint. Probably one of his glorious descendants, carrying the proud chicken revolution into foreign lands.
Still, the sound made her chest ache.
Home was behind her. Mister Terminator was behind her. The cabin, the lake, New Town, her garden, her bow, all behind her. And ahead?
Trees.
Only trees.
As the mist thinned and the sun climbed higher, Lily kept expecting the forest to end. She expected a road, a fence, smoke, a roof, a person, anything. Instead, the stream kept twisting through moss and roots as if civilization were a joke it had decided not to explain.
By midday, her confidence began to wobble.
By afternoon, it was limping.
"How?" she whispered, stopping beside the water. "Where people?"
Art and Reinheart had come from somewhere. The Naughty Lions had come from somewhere. Rob had gone to Einsway and returned. People did not simply appear in the woods fully armed and annoying.
So where were they?
She could still turn back. Maybe she should. What if the mercenaries found the lake? What if Mister Terminator needed her? What if Mama or Papa came home while she was gone? What if she kept walking until her food ran out and became a tragic little skeleton in a stolen cloak, remembered by squirrels as a warning against poor planning?
But what if the village was close?
What if Einsway was just past the next bend?
What if she turned back now and stayed ignorant forever?
Lily clenched her small fists beneath the cloak.
Then the distant rooster crowed again.
The sound cut through the forest like a tiny war trumpet.
Lily breathed in.
A memory rose from her old life: a movie voice, a ridiculous line, men with too many muscles and not enough armor shouting about honor and never backing down.
Her eyes narrowed.
She lifted one fist.
"No retreat," she declared. "No surrender. That is Spartan law."
The forest did not react.
That was fine. Lily reacted enough for everyone.
"A new age comes," she continued, voice growing stronger. "Age of Lily. Great Lily. Future rich educated civilization person. I do not give up because forest too tree."
She punched the air.
"Urraahh!"
A nearby rabbit bolted into the ferns.
Lily nodded solemnly.
"Yes. Run and spread word. Very inspiring speech."
With her courage patched together by questionable ancient military philosophy, Lily pulled Art's hood over her pale hair and pressed on.
The hours dragged. She walked, jogged, drank from the stream, ate a few peas, then walked again. Her stomach complained. Her feet hurt. The forest remained stubbornly forest. But she kept moving, because moving meant she had not lost yet.
By late afternoon, the sun had started to sink again, and Lily's brave certainty had become very small. She was hungry, damp, barefoot, underprepared, lost in a way she refused to officially admit, and possibly being hunted by armed men.
Then finally the trees opened.
Ahead, pale and solid in the fading light, something crossed the stream. At first she thought it was another fallen tree, but then she saw the curve, the fitted stones, the clean shape made by human hands.
It was a bridge, a small stone bridge.
For one breathless second, she only stared. Then her face lit up.
"Holy heck," she whispered.
The whisper became a shout.
"It's a stone bridge! I knew it! I freaking knew it! Civilization!"
She ran with everything she had left. Her bare feet splashed through the shallows and slipped over wet grass until she reached the bridge. She slapped both hands onto the stone as if checking that it was real.
It was real. Cold, smooth, cut stone. Built by real people with tools, skill, and a blessed understanding that crossing streams should not require wet feet.
Lily laughed, breathless with relief.
Then she looked around for something more, but there were no houses, smoke, voices or anything civilised.
Only the bridge, the stream, the forest, and a dirt road running in two directions beneath the trees.
Her smile slowly fell.
"Nooo," she cried, dropping to her knees beside the bridge. "Why are you alone, Mister Bridge? Where are your builders? Where is village? Where is food? You cannot just be bridge by yourself. That is wrong!"
The forest offered no answer, except for a distant woodpecker who seemed committed to being unhelpful.
For a moment, Lily sat there in tired despair, hands resting against the stone. Then she forced herself to breathe.
A bridge was still proof.
A bridge meant people had needed to cross this stream. A road meant people had gone somewhere. Maybe they still did. Maybe civilization was not here, but it had left a trail.
The only problem was that the road went two ways. And two ways was one way too many.
Lily climbed from the stream-bed onto the dirt road and looked left, then right, then left again. There were hoofprints, cart tracks, and old muddy marks, but nothing that said which way led to Einsway and which way led to starvation, murder, or an embarrassing return home.
She bit her lip.
In her old life, people sometimes said right was always right. That was almost certainly not real navigation, but it was better than standing there until she died beside an unhelpfully beautiful bridge.
So Lily crouched, touched the dirt near the stone, and bowed her head with solemn gratitude.
"Thank you for wisdom, Mister Bridge," she whispered. "I will not forget."
Then she stood, wiped her cheeks, and chose the right-hand road.
Hopefully, right was right.