We left under a sky too silent to trust.
The wind had stilled, the trees stood like sentinels, and even the night creatures seemed to know something had shifted. Freedom was supposed to feel like open air and deep breaths—but for us, it felt like the sharp edge of a knife pressed to our backs.
We were fugitives now.
I kept close to Aira and Kiani, my senses stretched thin across the horizon. Every crack of a twig, every shadow on the path made my shoulders twitch. I walked in front, scanning for danger. Aira carried Kiani on her hip, her face pale and tight with tension.
John wasn't dead—but he was down.
After I shifted and ran him off, he didn't get far. He'd tried to come back with a knife, slurring threats through a bleeding lip. I stopped him—took the knife from his hand, snarled so close to his face I could feel his sweat sting my nose. He ran then. Maybe out of fear. Maybe to report us.
That's what worried me.
