Ethan ran.

  Branches lashed at his face and arms, catching in his hair, tearing at his sleeves. Roots reached for his boots like the forest was trying to trip him on purpose. His lungs burned, every breath sharp and shallow, but he didn’t slow.

  He didn’t look back.

  The roar came again—distant now, muffled by trees—but it didn’t matter. The sound had already done its work. Whatever it was, whatever it meant, his body understood one thing clearly.

  Move.

  He burst through a stand of low brush and nearly collided with a clearing.

  Not empty.

  A low fire smoldered at its center. Bedrolls. Packs. Metal catching light.

  People.

  He skidded to a stop, breath tearing out of him. Two figures turned toward him at the same time.

  One was tall and narrow, ears tapering back from a sharp-boned face. The other was broader, heavier, greenish skin stretched over muscle. Both moved with practiced ease.

  Weapons came up immediately.

  Ethan lifted his hands without thinking. “Wait,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not armed.”

  The taller one—elf, his brain supplied uselessly—said something sharp and clipped. A command, maybe.

  Ethan swallowed. “I don’t understand.”

  Blank looks.

  He tried again, slower. Different sounds. Different cadence.

  Nothing landed.

  The broader one shifted his stance, fingers tightening on a heavy bow.

  Ethan felt something inside him go cold.

  This wasn’t a misunderstanding.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  This was a problem.

  The elf’s gaze flicked to the treeline behind him. She said something again, sharper this time.

  Blue-white light flared in her palm.

  Ethan turned and ran.

  The spell struck where he’d been standing, blasting dirt and leaves into the air. He threw himself forward as arrows hissed past, one burying itself in a tree close enough that he felt the vibration through the trunk.

  He ran blind.

  Branches tore at him. Stone slick with moss sent him skidding. Heat washed up his legs as another spell scorched the ground behind him.

  He didn’t think.

  He didn’t plan.

  He just fled.

  He burst through a dense stand of trees and slammed shoulder-first into an oak hard enough to rattle his teeth. He spun, back to the trunk, hands scrabbling for balance.

  Footsteps. Voices. Too close.

  “No time,” he gasped.

  He dragged the knife from his pocket and cut his palm open in one hard motion. Pain flared, bright and grounding.

  He pressed his bleeding hand to the bark.

  “I don’t know the rules,” he whispered. “I don’t know what you want.”

  The words felt thin, useless.

  He didn’t offer years. He didn’t bargain in abstractions.

  He offered attention.

  Blood. Breath. Fear. Structure.

  “Just—slow them down,” he said. “Please.”

  For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

  Then the world grew heavy.

  Not darker. Not louder. Thicker. Like trying to move through cold water. Leaves stilled overhead. The ground beneath his feet resisted, reluctant to let him go.

  Someone shouted behind him—confused, sharp.

  Ethan didn’t wait.

  He tore his hand free and ran again.

  The forest closed around him.

  Not hostile.

  Not alive.

  Just unhelpful.

  Branches tangled where they hadn’t before. Vines caught his legs, snapped loose, then caught again. His boots slipped on roots that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

  Behind him, the pursuit changed.

  Not closer.

  Uncertain.

  He risked a glance back.

  The elf had stopped at the oak.

  She hadn’t touched it.

  The other one had.

  One broad hand pressed against the trunk, shoulders hunched, as if pushing against something invisible. An arrow loosed past Ethan anyway—but it flew wrong, veering, losing speed before clattering uselessly into the undergrowth.

  Ethan didn’t slow.

  He ran until his legs gave out.

  He collapsed behind a moss-slick boulder and dropped to his knees, chest heaving. His hand shook violently, blood slick between his fingers. He clenched it against his thigh and forced his breathing slower.

  In. Out.

  It didn’t help much.

  The pressure eased gradually. Sound returned in pieces—wind in leaves, distant birds, the quiet murmur of water somewhere nearby.

  The forest let go.

  Ethan stayed there, shaking, until his heart stopped trying to tear its way out of his ribs.

  “That worked,” he whispered.

  The words felt wrong.

  He flexed his hand. Pain answered immediately—real, sharp, reassuring. He smeared the blood across his sleeve and forced himself upright.

  Nothing followed him.

  No voices. No spells.

  Just trees.

  Ethan leaned his forehead against the rock and laughed once, breathless and hollow.

  “So,” he said quietly. “People notice.”

  He wiped his face, straightened, and turned away from where the road would be.

  He didn’t head toward a town.

  He walked deeper into the forest, because whatever waited there didn’t ask questions first.