The hills were different here. Steeper. Wilder. Gone were the well-worn trails and faded markers of civilization. The trees grew twisted with age, their roots gripping the stone like claws. Moss coated the rocks in thick patches, slick and deceptive. A single misstep could send her tumbling into the ravine below.

But she moved with purpose.

This was the path Lyana had mapped in secret—a route through the old highlands, where no patrols dared linger. Superstition clung to these hills like mist. Tales of cursed ruins and vanished scouts had kept even the Hollow from exploring too deep.

Rynaria didn’t believe in curses.

But she did believe in solitude.

It had been hours since she’d heard anything except the wind and the distant cry of crows. Her muscles ached from the night’s flight, and hunger gnawed at the edges of her focus, but she didn’t slow. Not yet.

A low stone wall emerged ahead, half-swallowed by ferns and ivy. Beyond it, an overgrown orchard sloped down toward a crumbling homestead—barely more than a ruin now, with a slanted roof and a single chimney jutting into the pale sky.

She hesitated, crouching low, scanning the area for movement. Nothing stirred. No fire. No scent of smoke or sound of life.

Cautiously, she approached.

The house had collapsed in on itself long ago, but a portion of the root cellar remained intact beneath a sagging trapdoor. She tested the wood—spongy with rot, but still holding. She pried it open and slipped inside, lowering the door gently above her.

Darkness swallowed her.

She let it.

For the first time in nearly two days, she exhaled without fear.

Rynaria lit a small glowlamp from her pack and set it on the dirt floor. The cellar was damp and musty, but dry enough to rest. Baskets of petrified apples lined one wall, crumbled to dust at the bottom. She found a corner, unrolled her bedwrap, and sat with her back against the stone.

Only then did she take out the strip of Kael’s sash.

It was fraying now, the edges curled and stained from being pressed against her for too long. She unfolded it slowly, ran her thumb along the embroidery—a simple pattern, nothing ornate, but deeply familiar.

“I should have left before I met you,” she whispered.

She didn’t expect an answer. But the quiet made it worse.

For the first time since slipping into this mission, Rynaria let herself feel the grief. Not loud. Not violent. Just steady. Like water seeping through stone. It filled the empty corners of her chest, pressed behind her eyes.

She let it come.

Because there was no one left to see.

She didn’t sleep. Not really.

A few hours passed in a haze of half-conscious listening—ears tuned to every shift of wind, every creak of settling wood above her. At one point, something scratched at the trapdoor. A scavenger animal, maybe. Maybe not. She stayed still, blade in hand, breath held until the sound moved on.

By the time she emerged, the sky was thick with clouds. No sign of pursuit, no new footprints in the frost. The orchard remained empty.

She didn’t linger.

Rynaria moved swiftly down the slope beyond the homestead, bypassing the treacherous gully where the old streambed had eroded into a sheer drop. Lyana’s map had marked a broken aqueduct farther west—a crossing point.

But the land was changing.

The deeper she moved into the wilds, the more the terrain shifted. Paths disappeared beneath thorned undergrowth. Stones turned slick with lichen. It was as if the earth resented being remembered. Twice, she had to double back. Once, she nearly fell into a sinkhole concealed by rotted leaves.

By midday, the wind picked up. Cold. Sharp. It carried the scent of rain.

She took shelter beneath a limestone outcrop and forced down the last of her travel rations—a handful of dried root crisps and a strip of smoked leaf-meat. Her stomach grumbled as if it had been promised more.

Thunder rumbled to the south.

She checked her bearings again. The ridgeline ahead should’ve curved north by now, but it didn’t. Either Lyana’s map was wrong, or she had drifted off course.

Frustration prickled at the back of her neck. She hated this feeling—uncertainty. Vulnerability. She was trained for stealth, not wilderness navigation.

And now she was alone.

Utterly, completely alone.

She adjusted her pack, rose, and pushed onward.

The next clearing brought her to a fork she didn’t recognize. Both paths were narrow, overgrown, and riddled with half-fallen stone. The air felt heavier here. Like something watched.

She crouched to study the ground.

No recent tracks. Just animal sign.

And then—

A faint noise. Behind her.

Not wind. Not a bird.

A footstep.

Rynaria spun, blade in hand.

But the path was empty.

She backed into the trees, heart pounding. Waited. Counted to twenty.

Nothing.

Still… she felt it. The way animals sense the presence of a predator before it strikes.

She moved again, faster now, no longer bothering to mask her passage. The terrain narrowed into a stone-cut channel—once an irrigation canal, now a shadowed scar in the hillside.

She didn’t hear the second set of steps until it was too late.

A figure emerged from the brush behind her.

Tall. Wrapped in a weather-cloak.

Not a patrol uniform.

Not Kael.

Rynaria raised her blade without hesitation.

“Easy,” the figure said, raising both hands. “You’re not the only one avoiding the war.”

The voice was female. Rough. Older. There was a scar across her cheek and a burn mark visible beneath her collar.

Rynaria didn’t lower the blade.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing. Just saw someone moving fast through cursed woods and thought, ‘That one’s either smart or desperate.’ Figured I’d say hello.”

Rynaria didn’t move. “You’re following me.”

“Maybe,” the woman admitted. “But I’m not your enemy.”

“I don’t have enemies anymore,” Rynaria said coldly. “Only people I’ve outlived.”

The woman smiled. “Then maybe you’re like me.”

Rynaria finally lowered the blade a fraction. “I’m nothing like anyone.”

“Good,” the woman said. “That’s what survivors say.”

The stranger didn’t press forward. She leaned casually against a fallen tree, rain-slick bark creaking beneath her weight. Her eyes—steel gray—remained locked on Rynaria, but without threat. Just calculation.

“I’ve seen others pass through here,” she said. “None of them moved like you.”

Rynaria didn’t answer.

“You’re running from something.”

“Everyone is,” Rynaria said.

“True,” the woman conceded. “But most aren’t running toward anything.”

That gave Rynaria pause.

The woman stepped away from the tree. Slowly. Deliberately. Her weather-cloak parted just enough to reveal a worn dagger at her hip and a pouch bound in crimson cord.

She caught Rynaria’s glance. “Old habit. Don’t worry—I’ve no stake in you. Just curiosity.”

Rynaria remained tense, but her blade lowered another inch. “Then stop shadowing me.”

“I can help,” the woman said simply. “You’re off-course. The storm that’s coming won’t be kind.”

“You think I need help?”

“I think even the strongest can bleed if they walk blind into the wrong valley.”

Rynaria almost snapped a retort. But something about the woman’s tone made her hesitate.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

The woman tilted her head, as if surprised by the question. “Most around here call me Cirel.”

“Not your real name.”

“No,” Cirel agreed. “But I’ve had more names than I care to keep.”

Rynaria didn’t offer hers.

Cirel didn’t ask.

Instead, she gestured west. “There’s a low pass beyond the next ridge. Safer than the map route. It’s narrow, but less exposed. You’ll avoid the flooded channels.”

Rynaria hesitated. “Why warn me?”

“Because I know what it looks like when someone’s carrying too much weight,” Cirel said. “You’ve got grief stitched into your spine, and it’s slowing you.”

Rynaria’s grip on her weapon tightened.

“Not weakness,” Cirel added. “Just unfinished business.”

The wind shifted again, colder now. The sky darkened visibly.

“If you’re lying,” Rynaria said.

“I’ll be dead by nightfall,” Cirel replied. “Same as you.”

They stared at each other another moment longer.

Then Rynaria moved. Not toward Cirel—just past her, into the brush where the new path sloped into dense fog.

She didn’t invite the woman to follow.

But she didn’t stop her, either.