Chapter 3: The Hunt (III)

  A wyvern hurtled past the treetop with a howl, its rushing wind even palpable in the tree hollow. These enormous flying creatures ruled the marsh night unchallenged, their diet including all warm-blooded animals—even wild oxen nearly their size.

  The draft carried a scent similar to lizards, which repulsed the pursuer. He cared nothing for any connection between the two creatures; he simply loathed it. If not for these nightly prowlers forcing him to wait for dawn in a hollow like his prey, he would’ve broken the fugitive in a single day and night of relentless pursuit. If not for those stench that nearly numbed his sense of smell, he wouldn’t have been delayed by that almost successful ruse, wouldn’t be here staring at the distant fire, confused.

  Why build a fire? To eat and replenish strength? Does he know I’ve seen through his trap? Or is this another trick?

  Are you taunting me? the pursuer thought, seething. Are you saying, “I’m right here—come get me, let me tear out your heart”?

  But he quickly admonished himself: stay calm. Facing such a cunning prey, losing calm meant falling into a trap. This was undoubtedly a snare, or a continuation of the day’s deception.

  The river was near. At dawn, he’d run at full speed, then end this hunt in a satisfying way. The pursuer let out an excited snort, gripping his brutal weapon. The dried brain matter and blood on it had formed a thin crust, as if part of the blade itself.

  Don’t get overexcited. Stay calm, stay calm, he reminded himself again. Every trace seen tomorrow must be studied, weighed—no more illusions. Remember the tricks. Be wary of tricks.

  You think I’m easy to fool? Are you proud of that brain I’ll twist off and savor slowly?

  Pleased with his calm reasoning, the pursuer snorted again.

  The blade slicing skin, cutting muscle, severing the windpipe, then the artery—cutting through muscle, piercing skin, emerging from the other side of the neck. The sensation traveled clearly from his fingertips up his wrist, elbow, arm, and straight to his heart. Layered, profound, like a masterpiece of poetry. Then bright blood gushed joyfully from the woman’s body, letting Ethan drink his fill.

  A few strands of black hair clung to her thin lips, which curved in a faint, awkward line. Her drooping eyes were half-closed, a hazy smile lingering behind her long lashes. Up close, he saw she was extraordinarily beautiful.

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  Fear struck Ethan suddenly. Fear of the tenderness in those half-closed eyes, the stubbornness in her pursed lips. The woman’s expression hadn’t changed, but Ethan was drowning in terror of this newly found softness and beauty.

  Then he realized the blade had cut not just her throat, but his own. He touched the wound on his neck, the vivid memory of slicing it echoing in his chest. He tried to fill the gash with that sensation, but it was useless. Ethan groaned in agony.

  Staring at the woman’s beautiful, gentle face and the ghastly wound on her neck, feeling his own injury with his hand, sorrow, grief, fear, and pain engulfed him like the surrounding darkness. Ethan jolted awake.

  The first pale light of dawn glowed in the east, and the wyverns’ cries faded. These creatures circled from the marsh edge back to their nests deep in the wetlands. The pursuer was closer to the marsh’s heart, giving Ethan a head start.

  But Ethan paid little heed to this precious time. He squatted by the dying fire, staring numbly as the woman crushed water mint and pyrethrum with a stone, dabbing the paste on her clothes and skin. The aftertaste of the nightmare still lingered in his mind, sticky as mucus he couldn’t shake, leaving his thoughts muddled. Fortunately, he could feel his strength had all but fully returned.

  The woman, however, seemed to have slept well. After applying the paste, she packed her things neatly, chattering as she worked. “You had a terrible nightmare last night. It woke me. I almost roused you.”

  Ethan stared at her calm, radiant face: those beautiful, dreamy eyes, straight nose, thin lips, the hint of a delicate neck beneath her clothes. A sudden illusion of blood gushing from it made him shiver.

  The woman finished packing and bid him farewell. “Goodbye. If you ever get the chance, come find me at Duke Mrak’s mansion in the capital.” She smiled, softening even the morning mist. “My name is Sophia.”

  No chance. Either you die or I do. Unable to meet her smile, Ethan grunted, staring at the ground.

  Once her figure vanished into the morning haze, Ethan ran toward the river.

  He didn’t jump in to mask his scent, nor did he care about leaving footprints even the blindest rat could see in the soft mud. He didn’t run fast—this pace conserved energy most efficiently. He knew well: any pretense would only invite suspicion in the pursuer’s eyes. Such obvious tracks might confuse him instead.

  Of course, the pursuer might still follow this true trail. But after the last trap, he’d hesitate. The odds were slimmer. Ethan suddenly realized he was almost hoping to hear the pursuer’s footsteps behind him.

  But confusion wouldn’t help. This was the best plan. If the pursuer wasted strength and time chasing the woman, his own chance to escape grew. Even if the pursuer killed her and doubled back, Ethan would hold the advantage in stamina, raising his odds of survival. He shook his head, focusing on each step.

  Yet less than half an hour into the run, a great river stretched before him. He almost laughed, almost cried. Everyone—even the pursuer—had miscalculated. Likely due to the rainy season, the river had split at a marsh lowland, cutting straight through the wetlands.

  At that moment, a faint scream drifted from deep in the marsh.

  Dulled by distance, it still struck Ethan’s heart like a sledgehammer. The nightmare flashed before his eyes—the ghastly wound on the woman’s throat, vivid as day. He froze, unable to move.