The forest was a blur of white and green as Thygon moved, silent among the snow-dusted pines. Every snap of a branch, every faint gust of wind against the treetops, was a warning—and yet he welcomed it. He needed to be close, and the trail of the fleeing child was faint, fragile, almost invisible to anyone less determined.

He slowed at the ridge, scanning the snow below. Tiny footprints—light, uneven, scared—cut through the powder. A child, he thought, and the weight of Veronica’s sacrifice pressed on him anew. He followed, careful not to leave his own trail, careful not to alert the hunters who might still linger behind.

Anise ran with all the speed her small legs could muster, her breath misting in the cold air, her eyes wide with fear. Behind her, the sound of barking dogs echoed through the trees, sharp and relentless. She pressed forward, clutching the amulet her mother had given her, the Morgontivich signet, warm against her chest.

“Keep running… don’t look back…” Her mother’s words were a ghost in her mind, a pulse that kept her moving even as exhaustion burned through her limbs. Snow clung to her hair, melted onto her skin, and stung like tiny needles, but she dared not pause. Not for a second.

Thygon watched from the ridge, his gaze tracking her through the trees. She was small, vulnerable, but determined. He could see the panic, the courage, the desperate will to survive. It mirrored something he had seen before—warriors pressed to the edge, pushed to survive when the odds were impossible.

He exhaled slowly, the sound lost in the forest wind. He couldn’t protect her yet—not now—but he could shadow her, follow quietly, and strike at any threat that dared come near. She had her mother’s instincts. That might be enough.

Anise stumbled over a root, nearly falling face-first into the snow. Panic clawed at her throat, but she forced herself up. The sound of paws behind her grew louder, closer. She hugged the signet tightly and whispered to it, to her mother, to anything that could guide her: Please… make it stop. Please… get me there.

A shadow moved above her, silent and fluid, barely noticeable through the falling snow. Thygon’s eyes followed her every movement, anticipating danger before it arrived. One wrong step from her, one miscalculation, and the hunters could end everything.

But he would not let that happen.

With a low growl, Thygon’s hand tightened around the hilt of his blade. The hunters would find him first if they wanted to reach the child. And by the gods, they would regret it