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The forest was silent when Lucas arrived — that uneasy kind of silence that follows violence, when even nature seems to hold its breath. The usual sounds of life had vanished; no rustle of wings, no distant chatter of sparrows. Even the wind moved differently here, slipping cautiously through the trees as if afraid to disturb what had happened.
The clearing ahead bore the faint scars of struggle. Near the roots of a gnarled oak, buried beneath a thin skin of soil and damp leaves, Malia's phone gave off a dim blue glow, the cracked screen flickering like a dying heartbeat. Lucas crouched beside it, brushing away the earth with careful fingers. The soil was still soft, still unsettled — a recent disturbance.
Around him, the forest told its story in fragments: arrow shafts snapped clean in two, claw marks gouged deep into the bark, and the lingering, acrid tang of wolfsbane — bitter and poisonous, curling through the cold air like smoke. The scent bit at his nose and tongue, an invisible warning of pain and poison both.
He pressed a hand to the ground, feeling the shallow grooves etched into the earth — long, dragging marks that spoke of resistance, of something or someone being pulled. Heavy boots had crushed the leaves flat in one direction. There were two sets of trails overlapping, one staggered, one steady. A struggle, then movement. He traced the story with his eyes, following the rhythm of each indentation like reading a grim, wordless poem written in dirt and blood.
Malia, you clever girl, he thought. The phone's placement wasn't random — it was angled just so, properly hidden but still sending out a faint signal. The hunters might have missed it, but Lucas hadn't. She'd known someone would come looking. She'd known he'd track her.
Lucas rose to his feet, drawing in a long, steady breath through his nose. Beneath the chemical sting of wolfsbane, other layers revealed themselves — the faint metallic tang of Isaac's blood, the sharper, more human scent of fear sweat, and the synthetic sterility of the usual hunter fabric. The forest was a labyrinth of odors, each telling part of a larger, darker truth.
He took out his phone, thumbed Isaac's contact. One ring. Then nothing. The screen went black. A dead signal. He checked the tracker — one flicker, then darkness. Disabled. Of course. The hunters didn't leave traces behind; they erased them.
Sliding the phone back into his pocket, Lucas let his eyes fall closed. He breathed in again — slower this time — opening himself fully to the murmurs of the forest. He felt the tremor of air moving between the trees, the subtle vibrations in the earth, the faint echoes of movement carried on the wind. The woods spoke to him in their own ancient language, and he listened until the direction became clear. North.
He started running.
The forest blurred around him, the rhythm of his body syncing with the pulse of the land. His feet struck the earth in a steady cadence — a low drumbeat echoing through the dark. Cold air filled his lungs, burning slightly with each inhale. Branches whipped past, scraping against his arms and shoulders. He vaulted fallen logs, ducked under low limbs, and moved like a ghost through the underbrush, following the phantom scent trail that grew weaker with every mile.
As he ran, the forest changed. The trees grew older here — trunks thicker, bark darker, their roots coiling like serpents through the soil. The canopy thickened until the sky vanished entirely, swallowing him in shades of green and gray. The air itself felt heavier, the silence more absolute, as if the forest were watching.
Then — a new scent cut through the damp earth and pine: oil and steel. A metallic tang carried on the wind. Human machinery. Moments later, he caught another note — the smoky burn of kerosene. His pace slowed. Hunters.
Lucas crouched low, sinking behind a ridge of moss-covered stone. The wind shifted, and with it came the faint murmur of voices. He couldn't make out the words, but their rhythm carried — harsh, clipped, and tired. Arguments. Orders. The tension of men who were angry, and tired.
His eyes glowed faintly red in the dark. The wolf stirred beneath his skin, restless, eager.
He looked ahead, scanning through the mist that coiled like breath between the pines. There — half-hidden by fog and shadow — stood the outline of a cabin. Old timber. Sagging roof. A hunting lodge long abandoned, reclaimed by moss and time.
Lucas's breath steadied, his muscles coiled in readiness. Beneath the human calm, the animal part of him rose, keen and silent.
Hold on, Malia. Isaac.
He stepped forward, one soundless stride at a time, the forest closing in around him once more — its silence no longer empty, but expectant.