Ruby-haired amnesiac cambion with poor vision and a naughty tail ran into the trees while flashing red and blue lights cut across the horizon, approaching the large house he had just fled from. They couldn't see him in the dark, but he couldn't see much either.

“Ow,” he yowled, caught in a thorny vine. “Flaring nature!”

His worthless eyes proved that they could, in fact, be even more useless to him out here in the woods when he needed them the most. He picked up a couple of long sticks to help him feel out the environment and trudged on. The air was earthy and still, reminding him of a mushroom stew so much he could taste it even though he couldn't actually remember eating it, and naturally, that led him to realize he was starving.

He made it deep enough into the woods that he felt safe from the police, but he paid attention to every rustle of leaves or scuttling of wood critters. If there was magic that could sense someone passing over a threshold, there had to be a magic method of tracking someone through the woods. The back of his neck tingled as if someone breathed on his skin. In this darkness, he could be surrounded and completely oblivious.

But police wouldn't hire a runecaster for a simple break-in. He didn't actually steal anything or hurt anyone—other than himself. He hoped they wouldn't waste their resources on him, but just in case, he sped up and immediately tripped over a root, falling face-first into a pile of moist leaves.

“I hate these woods,” he growled, spitting out what he hoped was just a leaf.

Deeper in, the canopies above him blocked all moonlight, forcing him to rely completely on his sticks to navigate the uneven terrain. He hoped he was close to emerging out onto a street or a settlement but what if he wasn't? What if these woods extended for miles? Worse yet, what if he was going in circles and was about to return to the house, right into the cops' waiting arms?

Both of his sticks hit a solid obstacle. He turned left to go around it but couldn't find the end. He felt around the foliage and found a rough surface reminding him of peeling stucco. Considering the break in the trees, revealing a long patch of sky, this obstacle was too small to be a building. A wall, then. A wall enclosing the entire estate, considering his flaring luck.

He dropped his arms to his sides and his shoulders sagged. He was trapped yet again. It was unfair. What did he do to deserve this? He just wanted to go home, wherever that was, eat a hearty meal and cozy up on a soft bed. And tomorrow, he'd wake up and it all would have been just a dream. He'd know exactly who he was. He'd remember everything.

But there was a wall on his path home and he couldn't dream it away.

He hit it with his stick, breaking it in half. He didn't get all the way here just to give up. He could walk alongside it and reach an exit eventually but that could bring him back to the cops. He needed to get on the other side. But how? He stood there for a moment, his mind struggling, his stomach growling so much, he felt queasy. 

If he could see at least, he could look for fallen wood to help him climb, but it was pitch dark. He needed light. Or fire. As soon as he thought it, an image materialized in his head—a symbol of a circle with a wavy line coming out the top. A rune? He picked up a chunk of bark and drew the rune with his finger. It caught on fire.

He dropped it from surprise, and it fell onto the mossy ground, where the fire went out but still smoldered. He lifted it again and blew at the glowing bark, rekindling the flame. He watched it burn with fascination, swelling with pride. He could manipulate elements with runes. Of course he could—he was a cambion. Why hadn't he thought of it earlier?

"I didn't forget runes because it's a genetic predisposition," he said, feeling that the statement was true. "I'm a runecaster too."

It still wasn't a name or a memory, but it was progress at figuring out who he was, and a useful skill as well.

He used the glow of the bark to see around him. By the time it burned through, he had heaved a mossy log and braced it against the wall. He stomped out what was left of the fire and climbed his slippery bridge. On top, he had a minor problem—no log to get down on, and he wasn't sure how safe jumping would be. And then his hand slipped, and, ready or not, he fell. Soft and damp foliage cushioned his fall but his ankle twisted under him. He sat on the ground and massaged it, tempted to rest for a while. He could use that miraculous healing elixir Tristine had used on him. 

He remembered the coziness and safety of that magic-rich house and hot jealousy bubbled inside him. Tristine had been nice to him until he told her about his amnesia. If that Merlin guy had found him first instead, they would most likely be indulging in the comforts of the guy's lavish home right now, discussing a plan for getting his memories back instead of sitting on a blanket of decaying leaves with cops on his tail. Was it a mistake to leave? He had panicked and acted on instinct, but now that he had run, it was too late to undo that choice. Innocent men didn't run.

Cold moisture seeped through his trousers and he shivered. Even his tail coiled into a spiral to preserve body heat. He had to keep moving. Using the fire rune, he turned a stick into a torch and let his frustration recharge him as he limped through the woods.