Marked by the Moon Tyrant

Two hours into my trek, I found them.

Rider tracks.

Deep grooves in the mud, fresh and sharp. The prints curved along the higher ground-meaning they had searched closer to the marsh than I thought.

My pulse spiked.

I crouched low, scanning the area. The tracks moved south, toward the main road. They hadn't crossed into the marsh itself. Good.

But if they were expanding their search radius...

It meant Draven wasn't giving up.

The realization slithered coldly down my spine.

I forced myself to keep moving, carefully stepping only where the mud was firm enough not to leave prints. My legs trembled from exhaustion, but I pushed forward.

The marsh thinned into dense forest by midday. Shafts of sunlight broke through the canopy, warming my skin just enough to stop the shivering.

I paused by a fallen log and peeled my wet nightshirt away from my arms. It had dried unevenly-stiff in some places, still damp in others.

I wrinkled my nose.

If I had to meet anyone like this, I'd look like a half-drowned ghost.

My stomach tightened at the thought of meeting anyone. I couldn't trust villagers-not when rumors about a "marked girl" would spread fast.

I needed solitude. Distance. Quiet.

I pushed deeper into the woods.

Birds scattered as I passed. Branches crackled under my feet. The faint hum under my skin flickered again-like a heartbeat that wasn't entirely mine.

But nothing else happened. No visions. No surges. No bond tugging.

Good.

The less fate stirred, the better.

By late afternoon, I found a small stream and knelt to drink. The cold water soothed my dry throat. I splashed some on my face, scrubbing away dried mud and leaves.

My reflection wavered in the ripples-tired eyes, tangled hair, dirt streaking my cheeks.

Pitiful.

But alive.

As I pushed back to my feet, the faint crunch of leaves snapped through the trees.

I froze.

Not horses.

Not riders.

Footsteps.

Someone-on foot-moving cautiously.

Too close.

I ducked behind a tree, pressing my back to the bark. My breath went thin and silent.

The footsteps drew nearer.

Closer.

Then a voice-young, hesitant.

"...Hello?"

My heart jumped painfully.

Not a rider.

Not a soldier.

A child.

I peeked around the trunk.

A boy, maybe ten years old, stood at the edge of the stream with a fishing pole over his shoulder. He wore patchy clothes and no shoes, his hair sticking up wildly.

He scanned the trees with wide, unsure eyes.

"Is someone there?"

I swallowed.

I could step out. Ask for help. Beg for food or directions.

But the wrong word could ruin everything. Kids talked. Parents listened. Villagers gossiped.

And one whisper reaching the wrong ears could send soldiers straight to me.

I held my breath as the boy slowly backed away, eyes still darting through the trees.

When he disappeared down a narrow trail, I sagged against the bark.

Too close.

I couldn't risk running into anyone again.

I turned away from the stream and headed toward the darker part of the woods, where fewer people walked and more predators roamed.

Predators were easier to deal with than kings.