21. The Hunted
The Hunted
The abomination's wings pummeled the air above us, each beat sending trees crashing down like matchsticks.
I threw myself over a root, my new antlers snagging on a branch that nearly snapped my neck backward.
Stars exploded across my vision. The weight of them—gods, the weight threatened to bring me to my knees with every step.
"This way!" Marx's shout cut through the creature's screams.
A massive trunk exploded to my left. Splinters and golden sap sprayed across my face, burning wherever it touched skin. The creature's talons—swords, they were basically swords—had shredded through bark and wood like paper.
"Faster!" The word tore from my burning lungs.
We vaulted over a fallen log. Behind us, another earth-shaking crash—the creature had landed exactly where we'd been standing.
The ground trembled. Again. Again. It pursued us on foot now, each step sending shockwaves through the forest floor.
A flicker of movement between the trees—someone else running, parallel to our path. The same stumbling gait I'd heard earlier when I’d first arrived in the forest.
A ravine gaped before us—six feet across, black water rushing far below. Marx didn't hesitate. She launched herself across the gap with the spirit of someone who'd spent her life outrunning death. She hit the far side hard, rolling with the impact.
Thatcher followed, his longer legs carrying him across easily despite his horns throwing off his balance.
I backed up three steps, took a running start?—
Wet leaves betrayed me at the edge. My foot slipped. For one terrible moment, I plummeted toward the black water, my antlers dragging me down like anchors. Then Thatcher's hand locked around my wrist, his face straining as he hauled me up onto solid ground.
"I've got you," he panted. "Always got you."
The abomination's beak appeared at the ravine's edge. We stared at each other across the gap—predator and prey, locked in a moment of terrible understanding.
Then it spread those massive wings and leaped.
"Move!" Marx's scream jolted us into motion.
We plunged deeper into the forest, racing west away from the river's sound, where trees grew so thick their trunks kissed.
The triple peaks had vanished behind the canopy, leaving us directionless except for the need to flee.
Here, the creature couldn't follow—its wingspan too massive, its bulk too great for the narrow spaces.
But I heard it circling overhead, screaming its rage and frustration. A talon punched through the canopy, groping blindly for prey it could sense but not see. We pressed ourselves against tree trunks, holding our breath as death reached mere inches away.
Finally, blessed silence. The creature's cries faded, then vanished.
We collapsed in a hollow formed by three massive trees. We'd covered at least a mile of rough terrain. The sound of the river was gone now, replaced by the eerie silence of deep forest. Without the peaks or sun to guide us—darkness was falling fast—I had no idea which direction we faced.
Godsdamn it .
Every muscle in my body screamed for mercy.
"Well." Marx wiped blood from her temple where her antlers had carved fresh wounds. "That was invigorating."
Thatcher slumped beside me, his breathing ragged. "Are we even safe here?"
"For now." I touched my scalp gingerly, wincing at the wetness. "But those things still hunt out there. And night's coming."
Through our bond, exhaustion mirrored between us. But despair lurked underneath.
"We can't fight them," Thatcher said quietly. "Did you see what happened to that contestant?"
The image burned behind my eyelids—branches erupting from his mouth, his desperate hands clawing at his face as bark consumed him from within.
"He used his abilities and became a tree," Marx stated flatly. "So powers are off the table."
"And weapons don't work either." His arrows had simply dissolved against the creature's hide. "So what do we do? How do we survive until dawn?"
"Wait." Thatcher's voice sharpened with sudden understanding. "Think about what Davina said. About the natural order. About everything serving its purpose."
I watched realization dawn in his eyes.
"We're not the hunters anymore," he continued. "The moment those crowns transformed, we became something else."
"Prey," Marx breathed, touching her antlers.
"Exactly. Davina forces us to follow nature's balance,” Thatcher said. "Prey runs. Hides. Survives by being smarter, faster, more clever than their hunters."
"So we can't fight back." The full weight of our situation crashed over me. "That's why weapons dissolve. Why powers turn you into a tree. Prey doesn't attack—it adapts."
Thatcher took a deep breath.
"But one thing bothers me," I pressed on. "This entire trial screams Davina. The hunt, the transformation, the natural order—it's all her. But where's Thorne?"
"His voice announced the change," Thatcher pointed out. "After the horn."
Marx stayed quiet for a moment. "Maybe we're thinking about it wrong."
"How so?"
"I don't know. But if both oversee this trial, there has to be more than just running and hiding."
Silence settled over our shelter. Outside, the forest had gone quiet—no birdsong, no rustling creatures.
Footsteps broke the stillness.
Someone approached our hiding place, trying and failing to move silently.
I gripped a knife from my pack, its weight steadying my nerves.
The footsteps stopped just outside.
"I know you're in there." A male voice, young and nervous. "I'm not here to fight. I just... I need help."
Marx's blade materialized in her hand. Through our bond, Thatcher coiled to spring.
"Show yourself," I commanded.
The air shimmered. A figure materialized—a young man, maybe a year younger than us, with brown hair matted to his forehead with sweat. He raised empty hands, wavering slightly as weight shifted off his left foot.
I vaguely recognized him.
“I’m alone. No need to attack," he said. "We never met, but I've been watching you three. My name is Kyren."
"Why should we trust you?" Marx's blade stayed ready.
"Because those things will kill me without allies."
Thatcher studied him with razor-sharp attention. "What's your power?"
"Illusions. I can camouflage us. Though the creatures will still track our scent."
"Use your power and you die," Thatcher warned grimly.
"I just used it outside." Kyren's brow furrowed. "And I'm still breathing."
We absorbed this new information in stunned silence.
"It's defensive." Understanding bloomed across Thatcher's face. "Only offensive powers trigger punishment."
"Of course." Marx rolled her eyes.
"Can you run?" I studied his wrapped foot, noting how he kept shifting weight to his right side. "I mean really run. This won't work if you collapse on us."
Kyren's jaw tightened. "I can run." He tested his weight on the injured foot, barely suppressing a wince. "Might not be pretty by the end, but I'll keep up."
"How did it happen?" Thatcher asked.
"Stepped in a snare during the first few minutes." Kyren shook his head. "Was so busy watching the sky for eagles, I didn't watch the ground. Wire snare—went off right at the ankle, tore through the boot leather." He gestured at his foot. "Got free, but the damage was done."
"Could've been worse," Marx observed.
"That's what I keep telling myself. Another few inches and I'd have lost the foot. Mother always said I had the merchant's luck—bad enough to find trouble, good enough to survive it."
I exchanged a look with Thatcher. He'll slow us down.
Maybe. But he's been surviving this long on one good foot.
"Show me," I said finally.
Kyren hesitated, then unwound the silk. The gash was ugly but clean—the wire had cut deep but straight. He'd packed it with leaves.
"Thornwick," he explained at my questioning look. "We used it back home to pack delicate items. Absorbs moisture, stays soft. Not medicinal, but better than nothing."
"When you can't run anymore?" Thatcher pressed. "What then?"
Kyren met his eyes steadily. "Then I make myself useful however I can. I'm not asking you to die for me. Just to let me help while I'm still able."
"Fine," I said. "We’ll pace ourselves to keep you functional as long as possible."
"Deal." He rewrapped his foot. "But there’s something else," he continued. "My moon-hare transformed into these amber-colored rocks."
My heart stopped. “Rocks?”
"Yeah."
With trembling hands, I reached into my pack and pulled out what remained of our hunt.
The moon-hare's corpse had vanished. In its place sat a pouch. I poured the contents into my palm.
“Resin,” I breathed.
Marx checked her pack, pulling out what had once been crystal antlers. Now only yellow crystals remained.
"Sulfur," she said, wonder coloring her voice.
"These are ingredients." My mind raced. "For Alchemical ink.”
"The eagle," Marx said suddenly. "I bet it carried mercury. We're supposed to draw sigils.”
But despair chased understanding. "The eagles are gone. They're all monsters now."
Think, Thais. There’s got to be another way out of here.
Then I remembered the moss that had sent me sprawling, how it shielded fungal networks beneath. The protective tree sap.
The three base ingredients for alchemical ink were a liquid metal base, sulfur and resin. We were supposed to use those along with the natural ingredients to draw some kind of sigil that would allow us to bypass the creatures. And we only had two.
Your weapons will not save you, but they may yet serve.
I pulled a hammer from my bag, one of many scattered through the forest after I'd arrived. Dark splotches marked its surface.
Iron.
There’s another way out of this .
"What if we don't need the ink?” Ideas clicked together in my mind. "What if we make a different preparation?”
"Like what?" Marx asked.
"Wards." I hefted the hammer. "The tools are iron. I saw moss and sap that could serve as protective elements."
Thatcher's eyes widened. "The building. Smoke rose from its chimney."