The river is louder than the drums ever were.

  Oscar hears it before he sees it—a constant, rushing roar that fills the trees and drowns out thought. When they break through the brush, the sight of it makes something inside him sink.

  It’s swollen from the rains. Brown and violent. The current chews at the banks, carrying branches and debris in its grip. Foam gathers in snarling eddies around half-submerged rocks.

  The bridge is fifty yards upstream.

  Stone. Intact.

  And completely exposed.

  Open ground on either side. Clear lines of sight. A perfect place for horned silhouettes to appear against the sky.

  Bruno doesn’t even look at it for long.

  “We ford,” he says.

  Oscar stares at the water. His limbs already feel heavy from the march. His muscles have been shrinking, eating themselves day by day. What used to be strength now feels like wasted weight.

  He steps in first.

  The cold is a physical blow.

  It punches the breath from his lungs and clamps around his thighs like iron jaws. The water surges against him, immediate and hostile, dragging at his soaked boots. His skin burns, then goes numb in seconds.

  “Move,” Bruno snaps from behind.

  Oscar plants his feet and pushes forward. The riverbed is uneven, stones shifting treacherously underfoot. The current presses hard against his hips now, trying to turn him sideways.

  He grits his teeth. The copper taste of blood fills his mouth where he’s bitten his tongue.

  Behind him, Mara gasps as she steps in. Raúl makes a broken sound that’s swallowed by the roar.

  Elisabete is last.

  She is small. Too small.

  The water reaches her waist almost immediately.

  “Stay behind me,” Oscar growls over his shoulder, not looking at her.

  They move in a staggered line, Bruno ahead, Oscar in the center, the others clustered.

  Halfway across, the current strengthens.

  The cold begins to burrow inward. It steals heat methodically, pulling it from muscle and marrow. Oscar’s legs start to feel distant, like they belong to someone else. Each step is slower than the last.

  Then Elisabete slips.

  He hears the splash more than the cry.

  Her footing vanishes and the river takes her sideways instantly. She disappears in a churn of brown water, boots flashing once before she’s swept downstream.

  “Damn it—”

  Oscar lunges without thinking.

  The current slams into him sideways as he pivots. His pack jerks against his shoulders, dragging him off balance. His longsword—his last real weapon—hangs heavy at his hip, the weight pulling him downward.

  He sees her surface briefly, mouth open, eyes wide but silent.

  If he reaches with both hands, he won’t keep his footing.

  He has one second to decide.

  The strap of his pack cuts into his collarbone. The sword’s weight drags at his belt.

  He lets go.

  His hand flies to the sword first, instinct screaming not to lose it—but instinct is wrong. He tears the belt free instead, ripping the weapon from his body and shoving it away into the current.

  The river swallows it without hesitation.

  Freed of the weight, he lunges forward and catches Elisabete’s cloak as she spins past him. The force nearly takes him under with her. Water floods into his mouth and nose. He tastes mud and rot and blood.

  He digs his boots into the shifting stones and roars through clenched teeth, hauling her toward him with both arms.

  For a second, he thinks they’ll both go.

  Then Bruno is there, grabbing Oscar’s shoulder, anchoring him.

  Together they stagger toward the far bank.

  They collapse into the mud in a tangle of limbs and coughing.

  Oscar rolls onto his side and vomits river water. His chest convulses violently. His fingers are white and shaking.

  He feels hollowed out.

  The others crawl up beside them. Mara is sobbing softly. Raúl is on his hands and knees, leg dragging uselessly behind him.

  Elisabete lies on her back, staring at the sky. Water runs from her hair in thin streams. She does not cry.

  Oscar pushes himself onto his elbows.

  His hip feels wrong.

  Light.

  He reaches instinctively for the familiar weight at his side.

  Nothing.

  The realization settles slowly, heavier than the river.

  The sword is gone.

  His primary weapon. His reach. His edge.

  Gone in seconds.

  He looks at the water, still raging past as if nothing has happened.

  Then he looks at Elisabete.

  She turns her head slightly, meeting his gaze.

  There is no gratitude there. Just exhaustion. Numbness.

  Something ugly flashes through him.

  Hatred.

  Not because she fell.

  Because she cost him.

  He says nothing.

  He just stares at her for a long moment, chest heaving, teeth chattering violently now as the cold finishes its work. Hypothermia creeps in quietly, numbing fingers, slowing thought. His limbs feel wrapped in wet sand.

  Bruno is already forcing himself upright.

  “Move,” the soldier says hoarsely. “Now. Before we freeze.”

  Oscar rolls onto his stomach and pushes himself up. His legs barely obey.

  All he has left is the knife at his belt.

  He spits river water into the mud and stands there, swaying slightly.

  Lighter.

  Smaller.

  Less of a soldier than he was an hour ago.

  Bruno smells it before he sees it.

  Blood. Fresh. Not human.

  He raises a hand and the group halts in the dense thicket. The branches here knit so tightly overhead that daylight barely filters through. Good cover. Hard ground to track.

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  He moves ahead alone.

  The warhorse lies tangled in brambles, its flank heaving in shallow, frantic breaths. One rear leg bends wrong at the knee, bone pushing visibly against skin. The saddle is still strapped to its back, reins trailing uselessly in the mud.

  No rider.

  The animal’s eye rolls toward him, wide and white with pain. It tries to shift, but the broken leg folds under it and it collapses with a wet, panicked whinny.

  Behind him, Mara whispers, “We can use it.”

  “For what?” Oscar mutters, though there’s no strength in it.

  “Ride,” she says weakly. “Carry Raúl.”

  Bruno doesn’t turn around.

  “It won’t stand,” he says flatly. “Even if it could, we’d be visible for miles.”

  The horse lets out a thin, trembling sound. Not loud. Not strong.

  “It’s meat,” Bruno says.

  Silence answers him.

  Raúl swallows audibly. Elisabete says nothing.

  Bruno steps closer to the animal. Its breath comes faster as he approaches. It smells fear in him, or death.

  He places a hand on its neck.

  The skin is hot beneath his palm. Alive. Trembling.

  For a moment, he sees cavalry drills in his mind. Order. Formation. Banners snapping in clean wind.

  That world is gone.

  He draws his knife.

  The horse jerks weakly as the blade presses against the soft hollow beneath its jaw. Its eye fixes on him. There is no hatred there. Only confusion.

  “Easy,” he murmurs, though he doesn’t know why.

  Then he cuts deep.

  The blood comes in a violent rush, hot and slick, soaking his hands instantly. The horse thrashes once, twice, then its weight collapses fully into the brush. The sound it makes is short and terrible.

  Bruno keeps pressure until the body goes still.

  When he steps back, he is coated to the elbows.

  Oscar moves in without being told. Hunger overrides hesitation now. He sets to work with his axe, splitting hide and muscle. It is messy. The smell is overpowering—iron and bile and the thick animal heat of opened flesh.

  They work fast.

  No fire. No smoke.

  Bruno finds a flat stone and wedges it between two rocks. Oscar strikes sparks into dry moss beneath it, not to build flame but to heat the stone itself. It warms slowly, barely enough to sear.

  The first strips of meat are pressed against it briefly—just enough to gray the surface before being snatched away.

  The rest they eat raw.

  Bruno does not give instructions. There is no need.

  Mara falls to her knees and tears at a strip with both hands, face streaked with mud and rain. Blood runs down her chin as she chews, eyes unfocused.

  Raúl hesitates only a second before sinking his teeth into a chunk. Grease smears across his fever-bright skin. He chews with desperate intensity, jaw working like an animal’s.

  Oscar devours his portion in near silence, ripping through sinew and swallowing too quickly.

  Elisabete eats methodically. No haste. No hesitation. Blood paints her fingers dark.

  Bruno watches them.

  Five figures crouched in brush, slick with mud and horse blood, steam rising faintly from cooling flesh.

  They do not look like soldiers. Or scholars. Or children.

  They look like scavengers.

  He chews his own portion slowly, forcing himself to pace it. The raw meat is tough and metallic. It sticks between his teeth. Warmth spreads through his stomach almost painfully after so many empty days.

  He watches Mara lick blood from her knuckles.

  Watches Raúl gnaw at a strip as if afraid it might be taken away.

  Civilization is not a city.

  It is not walls or banners or laws.

  It is restraint.

  And that is gone now.

  They will eat anything. Kill anything.

  Do anything.

  He does not judge them for it.

  He only registers it as fact.

  When they have taken what they can carry, Bruno tears strips of meat and wraps them in rags stripped from the saddle padding. The cloth turns dark immediately.

  They leave the rest of the carcass for the forest.

  No burial. No gratitude.

  Just survival.

  Bruno wipes his blade on the horse’s mane and stands.

  “Move,” he says.

  They shoulder the blood-soaked bundles and push deeper into the trees, leaving a widening stain in the mud behind them.

  The sound comes through the trees like a memory at first.

  Rhythmic. Metallic.

  Not the hollow thud of wooden hooves.

  Iron.

  Raúl freezes mid-step.

  Bruno does too.

  The meat bundle under Raúl’s arm slips slightly, leaving a wet smear against his sleeve. He doesn’t notice. All he can hear is the steady clatter growing closer.

  Hooves. Multiple.

  “Down,” Bruno breathes.

  They scatter without argument.

  Raúl throws himself into a shallow drainage ditch half-choked with dead leaves and thorned bramble. The impact sends a spike of white agony through his leg. The infected flesh feels as though it splits open under him.

  He almost screams.

  His mouth opens—

  —and he shoves his own fist between his teeth.

  He bites down hard.

  Pain flares across his knuckles as skin breaks. The copper taste of his own blood floods his mouth, sharp and grounding. He clamps harder until his jaw aches.

  The hooves stop.

  Close.

  Too close.

  Through the weave of branches and dead leaves, he sees boots first. Polished leather. Clean.

  Then the mount.

  Not a horse. Larger. Muscles defined beneath dark hide, nostrils flaring steam into the cold air. Iron shoes flash at its hooves.

  And the rider.

  He looks human.

  That’s the worst part.

  Handsome in a severe, deliberate way. Clean jawline. Smooth skin untouched by hardship. His cloak is dark and well-fitted, not ragged. His hair is tied back neatly.

  Only the horns break the illusion.

  Short. Sharp. Emerging cleanly from his temples, curving slightly back.

  He dismounts with fluid ease.

  Raúl’s heart pounds so hard he thinks it must be visible beneath his ribs.

  The demon walks toward the place where they butchered the horse.

  The carcass still lies there, half-stripped, flies already gathering.

  The demon crouches beside it.

  He runs a gloved finger through the blood pooled in the mud. Lifts it. Examines it like a scholar considering ink.

  Then he notices something.

  A scrap of meat they missed, half-hidden beneath leaves.

  He picks it up.

  Raúl’s stomach twists.

  The demon removes his glove slowly, exposing pale fingers. Human fingers.

  He brings the raw strip of horseflesh to his mouth and bites.

  Juice runs down his chin.

  He chews thoughtfully.

  Then he smiles.

  Not wide. Not feral.

  Satisfied.

  Raúl’s teeth grind against his own knuckles.

  He knows.

  The realization crawls up his spine like ice water.

  The demon is not following an army trail. Not tracking refugees in bulk.

  He is tracking them.

  Five people. One infected. One child.

  The demon stands and turns slowly, scanning the trees.

  His gaze drifts across the undergrowth lazily at first.

  Then it sharpens.

  His head tilts slightly.

  He steps closer to the ditch.

  Raúl can see his boots now. Clean. Untouched by mud.

  The demon inhales deeply.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Raúl’s leg pulses violently, heat radiating outward. He is certain the smell of rot must be pouring off him like smoke.

  The demon’s eyes lift.

  They lock directly onto the bramble patch where Raúl lies hidden.

  For a heartbeat, the world narrows to that gaze.

  Raúl stops breathing entirely.

  His teeth sink deeper into his hand. Fresh blood fills his mouth.

  The demon’s expression does not change.

  He studies the bush for several long seconds.

  Raúl waits for the shout. The charge. The blade.

  Instead, the demon’s lips curve slightly again.

  He replaces his glove with deliberate care.

  Then he turns away.

  He mounts in one smooth motion and gives the reins a gentle pull. The iron-shod hooves pivot.

  Not back the way he came.

  Forward.

  Ahead of them.

  He urges the mount into a steady trot, disappearing through the trees toward the narrow pass Bruno had mentioned that morning.

  Cutting them off.

  Raúl releases his hand slowly. His teeth marks are deep. Blood drips onto the leaves below.

  He doesn’t feel relief.

  He feels something worse.

  Understanding.

  The demon could have found them.

  He chose not to.

  He is not chasing.

  He is herding.

  Playing.

  Raúl closes his eyes against the wave of nausea rising in his throat.

  The pain in his leg throbs in time with his heart.

  Somewhere ahead, iron hooves fade into the forest.

  He realizes they are not running from a patrol.

  They are being hunted.

  And the hunter is enjoying it.

  Bruno doesn’t raise his voice.

  He doesn’t need to.

  “He’s ahead of us,” he says after Raúl tells them what he saw. His eyes scan the trees once, calculating distances none of them can see. “We don’t stop. Not for water. Not for sleep.”

  No one speaks.

  “If you stop,” he adds, “I leave you.”

  He looks at each of them in turn when he says it.

  Not as a threat.

  As a fact.

  They start walking.

  It becomes something else after the first few hours. Not walking. Not marching.

  Enduring.

  The forest swallows time. The light fades, then vanishes entirely. They move through blackness thick enough to choke on. Branches whip their faces. Roots twist beneath their boots.

  Elisabete keeps her eyes on Bruno’s back.

  One step. Then another.

  Her stomach cramps in waves, but she ignores it. Hunger is constant now, like a second heartbeat. The cold creeps in after midnight, settling into joints and marrow.

  Mara begins to whisper.

  At first Elisabete thinks she’s praying. Then she hears the cadence.

  Incantations.

  Half-remembered syllables stitched together wrong. Her fingers twitch as if shaping something invisible.

  A faint spark flickers once at her fingertips—then dies.

  Mara keeps muttering anyway, voice fraying. “Lumen… claris… no, no—”

  Nothing answers her.

  Oscar walks like a drunk giant.

  His head dips forward, then jerks back up. Twice he collides with tree trunks hard enough to shake branches. He doesn’t curse. He just adjusts course and keeps moving. At one point his eyes are fully closed for several steps.

  He is sleeping while upright.

  Raúl limps so badly now that the rhythm of his steps is broken. Wet sounds come from his leg when he moves. The smell trails him faintly—sweet and rotten. He does not complain.

  No one does.

  The night stretches.

  Elisabete begins to see light between the trees.

  Orange light.

  She blinks.

  The forest is dark.

  But when she looks again, she sees flames licking up bark. Hears beams collapsing. The crack of timber.

  Keravos.

  The burning city stands between the trunks as if it has grown there.

  She hears her mother’s voice.

  Soft. Calling her name the way she used to from the doorway at dusk.

  “Elisabete.”

  She almost turns.

  Almost steps off the path.

  Her father’s voice joins it. Calm. Reassuring.

  “Come home.”

  Her throat tightens.

  She knows they are dead. She saw the sky burn red. She heard the drums.

  But the voices sound so close.

  She stumbles.

  Her boot catches on a root and she falls to one knee.

  Pain explodes through her foot.

  Sharp. Immediate. Real.

  She looks down.

  The boots.

  The dead woman’s boots.

  They are too big. The leather rubs against her heels raw. Blisters have formed beneath the damp lining. When she shifts her weight, the skin tears slightly.

  The pain is clean.

  It anchors her.

  The fire vanishes from the trees.

  The voices fade into wind.

  She pushes herself up.

  One step.

  Then another.

  The boots thud against earth.

  Pain.

  Real.

  The forest thins gradually, though she does not notice at first. The trees space wider apart. The underbrush recedes.

  Then, suddenly, there are no trees at all.

  Gray light bleeds into the sky.

  They step out of the woods at dawn.

  The land beyond is flat and open, stretching toward the distant outline of Terfort like a scar.

  No cover.

  No shadows.

  Just a broad, empty expanse of frost-bitten grass and churned mud.

  A killing field.

  Elisabete feels her legs give out before she decides to stop. She collapses forward onto her hands. The ground is cold and solid beneath her palms.

  Oscar drops to his knees a few paces ahead. Mara sinks down where she stands. Raúl simply folds sideways.

  Bruno remains upright for a few seconds longer, scanning the horizon.

  Then even he lowers himself slowly to one knee.

  The sun rises, pale and indifferent, over the empty field.

  Behind them, the forest waits.

  Ahead of them, nothing hides.

  The chase is about to end.

  Elisabete presses her forehead against the cold earth.

  Her feet burn inside borrowed boots.

  The pain is still real.

  Everything else feels distant.