While the Captain and his crimson-clad marauders organized their hunt for the "deserter," Matáo slipped from the village like a shadow; he took a wide, sweeping detour through the thickets to reach the farm he had called home for seventeen years. He moved with a frantic efficiency, gathering every scrap of smoked meat and dried fruit the larder held. He bundled extra tunics for his siblings and snatched up a handful of essential tools they would need for the road. Before he departed, he performed a final, clever bit of misdirection: he caught a small herd of the farm’s pigs and lashed the pieces of the stolen soldier’s armor to their backs before shooing them into the deep brush to run wild. He hoped the clatter of the stiffened leather would lead the hounds on a fool’s errand while he made his silent ascent: the climb back up the cliff was a grueling affair. The extra weight of the supplies pulled at his shoulders and every pebble he kicked loose sounded like a thunderclap in the morning stillness.

  When he finally crested the ridge and reached the sanctuary of the Sycamore, he found his small, broken family waiting in the grey light. He shared what he had seen with Jonah, though he purposefully omitted the more gruesome details; he could not bring himself to describe the man cast alive into the pyre. They worked through the final hours of darkness, binding their supplies into tight, manageable bundles so that even J?kob and the girls could carry their share without being slowed.

  As the first pale light of daybreak touched the leaves, Matáo handed out a meager breakfast of fresh bread and fruit. While the others ate in a somber silence, he knelt to tend to Nìa’s leg; he cleaned the wound with fresh water and bound it with clean linen he had salvaged from their home.

  “How does it feel?” he asked, his voice thick with a sudden, unbidden emotion. “Do you think you can walk the leagues ahead?”

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  As he looked at her, the image of the man in the fire flashed behind his eyes; his vision blurred with a sudden swell of tears.

  “I’m not completely helpless, Matáo,” Nìa stated, her voice firm as she stood to test her weight. “I walked to this ridge, didn't I?” She offered a sharp look toward Jessie, a small attempt at humor to break the tension. “Men! It is little more than a scratch; there is no need to weep over it.”

  Matáo offered her a weak smile, though the weight of leadership felt heavier than his pack. “It is time to move. We have wasted too many hours as it is; they will be upon this ridge before the sun is high.”

  Their goal was the distant garrison of the Peacekeepers, a journey of many leagues across unfamiliar terrain. As they stepped onto the path, Matáo paused; he turned to take a final, lingering look at the valley. He had spent his entire life within a day's walk of this spot, and the thought that he might never return felt like a physical blow to his chest. “Farewell,” he whispered to the wind, a single tear tracing a path through the soot on his cheek. He turned his back on his past and jogged to catch up with the others.

  They had been traveling for only a short time when the silence of the woods was punctured by a sound that made their blood run cold. It was the baying of hounds; deep, rhythmic, and echoing off the stone of the cliffs.

  “They have started the hunt,” J?kob whispered, his face pale. “And they sound closer than they should be.”

  “Pick up the pace,” Jonah and Matáo urged in unison, both stealing glances over their shoulders at the treeline.

  Minutes later, Matáo came to a sudden, jarring halt. He raised a hand, signaling for absolute silence. The barking had changed; it was no longer coming from behind them. The sound was drifting through the trees from the very direction they were traveling. They stood frozen in the middle of the path, their eyes growing wild with a new, secondary terror.

  They looked to Matáo for a sign, but as he turned to speak, he saw it. In the far distance, cutting across the lowland approach, was a second, smaller army on a disciplined march; they were heading directly toward the falls.

  “Back to the tree!” Matáo screamed, the visions of the burning village flaring in his mind. “Run!”