The afternoon light, filtered through the dense forest canopy, painted the forest floor with patches of pale gold and elongated shadows. The air, fresh in the morning, was now heavy and humid, laden with the sweet smell of decomposing leaves and warm earth. Each step taken by Nzambi, Tainá, and Whisper was slower and more labored than the last, a funereal rhythm dictated by exhaustion.

  Nzambi felt every muscle as a knot of pain. The leg wounded by the dog's bite throbbed in unison with his heart. The cut on his hand, made hours before to activate the dagger, burned beneath the crust of dried blood and grime. The dagger itself, now sheathed, seemed to weigh an anchor on his belt. Tainá, beside him, was pale and silent, using her staff not as a weapon but as a trembling third leg. The deep concentration she had maintained for hours to sense the earth's vibrations had left her with a glassy, distant gaze.

  Only Whisper seemed to retain a spark of energy. Her movements, though not the fluid shadow-glides of before, were still precise and alert. It was she who suddenly quickened her pace and stepped between them, making a brusque gesture with her hand for them to stop.

  "Wait," she whispered, her voice a thread of sound that barely disturbed the birdsong in the canopy. She wasn't looking at them; her ever-watchful eyes scanned the green wall of ferns and vines behind them.

  Nzambi and Tainá stopped, panting. The silence, now that the sound of their own steps had ceased, felt oppressive.

  "We're being followed," Whisper announced, without taking her eyes off the woods.

  Tainá closed her eyes for a moment, resting her forehead on her staff's handle. When she opened them, there was even greater weariness in them, but also confirmation.

  "It's true," she murmured, her voice hoarse. "I was also feeling it... a strange tremor. Not constant. It would stop, then start again. As if someone were stepping carefully, waiting for us to move farther before taking the next step. Not many. A small group. But they're there."

  Nzambi looked from one woman to the other, a feeling of uselessness sinking into his empty stomach. So I'm the only one who didn't notice a damn thing, he thought bitterly. While they felt the earth and heard what he couldn't, all he felt was pain and fatigue.

  "But... why don't they attack?" he asked quietly, confused. "If they know where we are, if there are only three of us... why not just end it?"

  Whisper finally turned her face to him. Her eyes were dark pools of intelligence and caution.

  "Because we're more useful alive," she explained, her logic cold and clear as a blade. "They're probably waiting for us to lead them straight to the rest of our people. To the main hideout. It's an old hunting tactic: you don't spook the prey when it's alone; you follow it to the den, where the whole family is."

  The image her words painted sent a shiver down Nzambi's spine.

  "So what do we do?" Tainá asked, lifting her head with effort. "Lead that scum straight to our companions, giving them another fierce battle... or keep walking until we drop dead, giving them a free tour of our rear guard?"

  The question hung in the humid air. Both options were terrible.

  It was then that Whisper did something unexpected. A slow, almost playful smile appeared on her lips. She brought a hand to the nape of her neck, loosening the tight bun that held her long black hair. The strands fell like a cascade of darkness over her shoulders, and she tossed them back with a movement that was, despite everything, full of weary grace.

  "We'll do both," she said, and her smile gained a touch of mischief. "We'll go in circles. In zigzags, climbing unnecessary hills. We'll buy time. Every minute they spend following us is one more minute for the cavalry to arrive. And while we do that, of course, we keep moving in the general direction of our people. And the best part..." She paused for effect. "...since they need us to lead them there, we can even take a strategic little break to rest. They won't attack. They'll wait, patiently, thinking they're in control."

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  The idea was so audacious, so challengingly clever, that for a moment Nzambi forgot the pain. It was a dance with death, where the secret was to dictate the rhythm.

  "And if they get tired of the game?" Nzambi asked, skeptical.

  "Then we'll have to run," Whisper shrugged, the smile still there. "But until then, let's make them sweat a little too."

  ***

  The sun was already leaning toward the horizon, tinting the clouds with shades of purple and orange, when Albuquerque awoke from his afternoon nap. The air in his tent, adorned with expensive fabrics and imported furniture, was stuffy. He stretched, his bones creaking, and stepped out into the camp, where campfires were already being lit for a meal.

  Henrique, his most reliable (or least incompetent) captain, was nearby, examining a crumpled map by lantern light.

  "Henrique," Albuquerque called, his voice still thick with sleep. "Well? Have you found the rats' hideout yet?"

  Henrique looked up, and Albuquerque didn't like what he saw. The man looked embarrassed.

  "No, sir..." Henrique began, clearing his throat. "It seems the trio... they made several stops throughout the day. They rested by a tree for almost an hour. Now they're walking again, but... it's taking a very long time for them to reach any place that looks like a camp."

  Albuquerque went still. Slowly, his face grew redder and redder. He felt an almost uncontrollable urge to slap Henrique, but he restrained himself, clenching his fingers into a fist so tight his nails dug into his palm.

  "Several... stops?" he repeated, each word coming out like a crack of ice. "While a whole squad is on their tail? Henrique, use whatever's inside your skull, for God's sake! Either they think this is a country stroll, or..." his eyes narrowed. "...or they figured out they were being followed. And they're playing with you."

  He turned his back on the captain, unable to look at such stupidity for another second.

  "Useless," he spat the word. "Change of plan. Following them is a waste of time. Get a horse, gather the fastest men, and send them to attack. End this farce. Meanwhile..." He looked into his tent, where his bow and quiver rested on a carved wooden stand. "...meanwhile, I'll find out where the rats are myself."

  Minutes later, Albuquerque was in a clearing on the outskirts of the camp. In his hands, he held his masterpiece: a composite bow of dark wood and horn, as valuable as a noble title. Along its body, three gems were embedded: one dark and opaque as a starless night (the Assassin's), one clear as a dewdrop (the Vision), and one a vibrant green like a new leaf (the Wind). From the quiver, he drew his companion arrow, a piece of craftsmanship mirroring the bow, with the same three gems.

  Without ceremony, he nocked the arrow, drew the string to his ear feeling the bow's perfect tension, and shot into the sky.

  The sound was dry and powerful. The arrow rose like an inverted lightning bolt, with a speed that defied the eyes. The sky, which had been laden with grey clouds since midday, began to release its first raindrops. Droplets falling diagonally were pierced by the arrow on its upward path, as if it were sewing through the rain. When it reached the base of the clouds, the arrow didn't fall. It stopped its ascent and, propelled by the last reserve of its initial momentum and the Wind gem, began to glide in a straight line, crossing the sky like a mechanical falcon.

  Albuquerque settled into a camp chair a servant had brought. He closed his eyes and placed his fingertips on the Vision gem on his bow. Instantly, his consciousness merged with the arrow's.

  He saw. Not with his eyes, but through the gem at the arrow's tip. The world presented itself in shades of grey and blue, but with supernatural clarity. He saw the ground recede, the trees become a dark green carpet. He passed over Henrique, who was galloping to gather the men, a small, insignificant figure. He passed over the pursuit squad, men moving like ants among the trees. The arrow's vision continued, following the general direction the pursuers indicated.

  It didn't take long to find a stream winding through a valley. The vision descended, scanning the banks. Nothing. Just rocks, foaming water, swaying ferns.

  Nothing... thought Albuquerque, a frustration beginning to boil within him. Unless...

  There was a mist. Not a natural mist that would dissipate with the wind. This one was strangely localized, dense, hovering over a specific section of the stream and riverside forest, ignoring the blowing wind.

  A slow, predatory smile spread across Albuquerque's lips, there in his chair, kilometers away.

  "I bet my best lands the rats are in that mist."

  Concentrating, he channeled a flow of mana to the Vision gem on the bow, amplifying the power of its twin gem in the arrow. The grey-blue vision changed. Now, he saw auras. Faint, blurred by the mist and the distance, but they were there. Points of trembling, colored light hidden beneath the cloak of moisture: the earthen yellow of an earth adept, the blue-green of a water adept (probably creating the mist), and dozens of other, weaker signatures, clustered together.

  Found you... the thought was a sigh of victory.