Chapter 4 - Lara
I've been moving for only about half an hour when I hear fighting in the distance.
It’s been fully light for a while, and I’m moving as fast as I can, but nowhere near covering enough ground.
I’ve been working uphill since leaving my little hollow, but my ankle isn’t holding up as well as I hoped.
The cold was bad last night, and it seems to have settled into my bones in a way that’s getting impossible to ignore.
I’m trying to focus on my system—setting an irregular pace, crossing paths that won’t leave a trail, and doubling back if I think I’m leaving a trail—but it’s getting harder to replicate.
I’m just considering which line to take across the next slope and whether to risk heading to the stream first to refill my bottle when I hear the first snarl and freeze.
It comes from somewhere behind me and slightly uphill, far enough that it’s slightly muffled by the forest, but still far too close.
The first snarl is short and seems cut off; it sounds deadly.
A second, louder snarl echoes through the trees, sending birds flying, followed by a crashing sound that signals large wolves fighting.
It’s ferocious. I press myself against the trunk of the nearest tree and hold my breath as long as my body will allow.
I want to squeeze my eyes shut, but I know I can’t. Instead, I let my mind run riot with a mantra that seems to soothe me, even if just temporarily. Please don’t be them, please don’t be them, be anything else, just please don’t be them.
I’ve never believed in a higher power, but it’s funny how praying is the only thing to get me through.
I pause just long enough to check if the fighting is moving closer. It’s not. It stays roughly where it is, taking on a heavier note until finally, silence falls and the forest seems to hold its breath.
I don’t wait to find out what’s going to happen next.
If those shifters want to fight each other, then that’s good for me.
Perhaps they’ll kill each other. But if one wins and then rushes this way, it wouldn’t take them long to reach my position, and I’ve wasted precious time by stalling.
I hesitate over whether to risk the stream but abandon the idea as it’s too exposed and push uphill instead, where I know the huts are more likely to be.
My ankle protests. It’s been protesting for three days now, and I’ve been ignoring it, but there’s a limit to how long that arrangement can last. I feel that limit is getting perilously close today.
I switch up my cadence with short bursts between cover and try not to let panic overwhelm me, because that’s when people make mistakes and go down on uneven ground like this.
I only make it about half a mile before I go down anyway, though.
It’s a stupid mistake. I get too cocky on a stretch of rock that looked dry but turned out to have slippery moss under the pine needles, and my boot flew out from under me before I knew what was happening.
I come down hard on my hip, with my right hand slamming down on the rock to catch myself.
I slide across the rocks' large surface and somehow manage to bash my head against it as I force myself to come to a stop.
My vision goes white for a moment, but I try not to make a sound.
I don’t move for a moment; I don’t even try. I do the inventory my father taught me when I was young, and I would injure myself playing in the forest. Sit up slowly, check what’s broken, check what hurts, check how bad it is before you try to stand.
My hip is bruised but not broken. My elbow can still move, so it's not broken. My ribs hurt, but I can breathe. My head is bleeding, but not too badly.
I sit up slowly and let the world tilt before righting itself. Once I’m sure I’m not going to pass out, I force myself to my feet. I’m out in the open here and can’t stay, not if I want to live.
I’m dizzy enough that I have to lean against the nearest tree and count to twenty before I can start moving again.
I know I’m in trouble. The fall has done something to me that I can’t quantify yet, but I know is serious—my head feels off, like the start of a migraine, and my ankle is now a straight-up injury rather than an issue I can deal with.
I have no water, and I haven’t eaten in days.
Today is not going well.
I know I’ve only got one option now. Find the hut.
My dad was part of the network that helped maintain the huts for humans, keeping them stocked and making sure the wards would still work when activated.
I know how to find them, and I probably should have tried to before now, but I was set on getting off the mountain and thought I could make it.
Also, the wards may hold when you’re inside, but they don’t last long, and I didn’t want the shifters to catch up with me. But now, I know I have no choice.
I found the first marker a while back, and now I’m looking for the next.
They’re not obvious; you could walk past them a hundred times and not notice, but I’ve been trained to know what to look for.
A rock is placed on a stump, but the rock has to be a particular type of granite, not found out here.
Different rocks denote a different direction of travel.
When I find the stump and rock combination, I have to study it hard to remember what it’s trying to tell me, my head making my memory feel fuzzy.
When I’m sure I’ve cracked it, the relief makes me feel even more lightheaded.
I lean against what’s left of the tree and breathe for a moment, but move on quickly because I can’t decide if the light-headedness is relief after all, or just my decline.
The next marker is only a few feet away, and then another leading me down, under an outcrop of rock.
It looks like nothing, which is the whole point.
I work my way around the side of the outcrop, feeling with my hands, running my fingers over the moss-covered surface until I find the door handle.
There are scent blockers nailed to the entrance, and I breathe them in as I pass.
The smell is faded, but it should still work a bit; besides, the real protection is what is inside.
I shut the door behind me and slide the peg into place, leaning against the door and fighting the tears of relief that threaten to fall.
The inside is small but well-built. A bunk along one wall, a stove to one side with a clever chimney that has been dug out far from the door, so even if faint smoke is spotted, it won’t lead predators to the door.
There’s a water barrel in the far corner, and I flick on the overhead light, grateful that it works.
On the wall opposite the door is the most important thing in here—an iron disc attached to the wall with a ring of carved sigils: the ward.
I’ve only ever watched my dad set these, but I know what to do. I set my hand flat on the disc and say the words I’ve known for years but never said with any intention. It’s a language I don’t know the name of or understand, but I don’t care because it works.
The disc begins to warm. It’s not hot, just warm.
As if it’s been left out in the sun, but there’s no sunlight in here.
The sigil glows for a moment, then dims slightly until it settles into a gentle glow.
The air in the hut seems to change, too, and I can’t even hear the wind outside anymore, so I know the ward is up. I’m safe.
But not for long.
A few hours, that’s all I’ll get, and then the ward will need at least 24 hours to recharge before being used again. Just long enough to rest and recharge. So that’s what I’ll do.
I turn toward the shelves near the stove, and for a moment, I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
The shelves are completely bare. They should be stocked with cans, but there’s nothing.
I rush over and begin checking the area around the shelves and under the bunk, but there’s nothing.
I rush over to the water barrel and gasp as I pull the lid off and find only dust at the bottom.
I slam the lid back down and straighten too fast; the room tilts, and I put my hand on the wall to stabilize myself before I fall.
Why would someone leave the hut like this? Why would they take everything and leave nothing?
These huts are maintained; that’s their entire purpose.
The network is huge, and the rules are clear; if you need to use the cabin, you always return and restock.
You leave more than you took. At the very least, you notify the network that the cabin has been used.
My dad was a crucial member of the network, and I’ve taken over managing the two huts closest to our cabin. It’s a system.
It’s a lifeline. And mine has just been cut.
I see the matches are still next to the stove. It’s a small tin with the network symbol still visible on the outside. I open it and sigh when I see there are only three matches left.
I do an inventory of my situation. Three matches, no food, no water, one blanket on the bunk, my list of injuries, my knife, my coat.
The ward will hold for a few hours, and then I will be completely vulnerable again.
I know the next hut will be at least six miles away, and optimistically, that would take me a day in this terrain—longer with this ankle.
And that’s only if I don’t have another accident, which is becoming increasingly likely given my lack of food and water.
I’ve got to assume the rogues will keep coming.
They would have given up by now if they’d lost interest. Whatever they were bringing the witch in for seems important to them.
They might even know to check the huts. I’m not na?ve enough to think shifters don’t know they exist, but they won’t find it while the ward is in place to disguise it.
Once it wears off, though, I have nothing.
I’ve been telling myself for days that I have time and can make it to the city, but I have to face facts. If I can’t move after resting here and find some water at least, I won’t be able to move at all.
That will be it.
I force myself to breathe. I will not die in this hut.
I make a loose plan: rest until my migraine settles, rest my ankle, and maybe make some kind of splint, and then I’m going to keep going.
There are three matches and some kindling.
At least I can get warm, and if I can chase the cold out of my bones, I might still stand a chance.
I focus on the only thing I can control: the stove.
The wood pile is pathetic, but it’s dry and will light easily.
I crouch down in front of the stove door and focus on building the small fire the way my father taught me, striking the matches and watching the flames take hold slowly and then grow.
It’s like he’s here, looking over my shoulder and urging me not to give up.
The thought brings fresh tears to my eyes.
Knowing I’m relatively safe, I let them fall, feeling a wave of grief wash over me.
I close the stove door and lower myself to the floor, watching the fire grow through the grate. I add a few more smaller splints, one at a time. The room around me starts to warm. I can see it in the way the air around the stove shimmers, and I can smell the burning wood. But I cannot feel it.
That’s the bit that scares me.
I’m right in front of a stove that’s pumping out visible heat, but I can’t feel it, not really. My hands feel numb. My face feels numb. I realize that even though the pain in my ankle isn’t as noticeable, it's not because it’s suddenly recovered, but because I’m losing feeling.
That can’t be good.
I pull the blanket from the bunk and wrap it around me, ignoring the smell, and sit there, waiting to see if my body is going to respond to the heat or continue to fade away.
After an hour or so, I realize that I can’t tell if it’s working or not, but I feel exhausted.
I don’t even feel hungry anymore; I just feel tired and flat.
The bunk weighs nothing, and I drag it closer to the stove before climbing onto it and pulling the blanket over myself.
I know I shouldn’t sleep or the ward could fade and I wouldn’t notice; I tell myself I’ll just rest my eyes and perhaps feel better for it.
I try to ignore the little voice at the back of my mind that tells me it knows I’m giving up.
I close my eyes.
I can hear the fire popping distantly, and I can sense the ward is still up. I am too cold to feel the warmth and too tired to feel afraid anymore, so I let myself drift.
I think about my cabin. I think about the porch in summer and the way the light fell on the kitchen table in the morning.
The way my dad would make us breakfast and the cup he used for his coffee.
I let the warmth of those memories warm me more than the stove ever could, and for a moment, I’m there, and everything is right in the world.
I let my body rest, not knowing if it will get back up.