The trail wound through low hills covered in dry, brittle scrub that scratched at their legs with every step, the sharp edges of the leaves leaving faint red lines on exposed skin and releasing a faint, dusty scent of sun-baked earth.
The base walls had shrunk to a hazy smudge on the horizon behind them, swallowed by the shimmering heat that rose from the ground in wavering waves.
The morning air was crisp and sharp, carrying the untamed scent of warmed soil, distant pine resin that clung to the back of the throat, and the faint, underlying musk of beasts—wild, primal, a reminder that out here, the world had teeth.
David's boots crunched softly on the gravel-strewn path, each step kicking up small puffs of fine dust that coated his tongue with a gritty, mineral taste.
The sun beat down on his neck, already warm despite the early hour, sweat beginning to bead along his hairline and trickle down his back beneath the pack's weight.
The straps dug into his shoulders, a constant, dull ache that grounded him even as his mind churned.
Anna walked half a step ahead, her spear balanced perfectly on her shoulder, the wood worn smooth from years of use.
Her footsteps were lighter, almost silent, the way she moved when her senses were fully extended—ears tuned to every rustle in the brush, every sudden silence of birds that might signal danger, the faint shift of wind carrying scents she could read like words.
But the neighbor's signal burned in both their minds like a fresh brand—undeniable, unmistakable, a silent declaration of war that hung heavy between them, thicker than the dust in the air.
David's jaw tightened as the realization settled deeper, cold and heavy in his gut like a stone swallowed whole.
That flick of the fingers, the quick, guilty glance away—it was as clear as a war banner flapping in the wind. Who else would bother?
Who else had the petty, festering pride to chase them out here just because David had bruised his ego in front of his lackeys?
Stupid. So incredibly stupid.
He wanted to punch himself right there on the trail. That day in the alley—charging William like some hot-blooded fool, letting pure rage hijack his brain—it had felt so right in the moment, the rush of power from the inheritance surging through his veins like fire, finally standing tall instead of swallowing another round of humiliation like the weakling he used to be.
The memory played again: William's smug leer, his filthy words to Anna like she was property to be claimed, David's fists clenching until they bled, the taste of copper in his mouth from biting his tongue to hold back—then the explosion, the charge, the satisfying impact.
But now? Now it had painted a massive target on his back. And worse, far worse—on hers.
Great job, hero. Real smooth.
Protect Mom by turning her into William's twisted obsession prize. What a brilliant plan. Next time, why not just hand her over with a bow on top? 'Here, take her, I got angry once.' Genius.
Absolute tactical masterclass from the guy who couldn't cultivate for years and suddenly thinks he's a warrior.
If he could go back, he'd wait. Watch. Strike cold and clean when William was alone, when no one could send dogs after them. Instead, he had handed the man the perfect excuse on a silver platter, wrapped in his own hot-headed stupidity.
Oh yeah, because waiting would have been too boring for the great David. Had to play the dashing protector.
Now we're both prey because I couldn't keep my temper in check.
Some inheritance bearer I am—peak Stage 3, fancy abilities like death consumption and Void Step—and I still manage to screw it up royally. Mom's going to fix this. Again. Because her idiot son couldn't control himself.
Guilt gnawed at him, hot and bitter, mixing with frustration that tasted like ash in his mouth, the dust from the trail only making it worse as he swallowed hard.
He glanced at Anna ahead of him—her stride steady, spear ready, posture calm—but he knew her too well. She had seen the signal. Her fingers had brushed the spear hilt when they passed the neighbor, her eyes had flicked to potential vantage points on the rooftops.
She knew exactly what was coming.
She's probably figuring how to clean up my mess without letting me see how worried she is.
The self-mockery twisted deeper. Yeah, David. Keep patting yourself on the back. You're a real legend.
Anna felt David's gaze on her back, heavy with the blame he carried like an extra pack. Her boy—always so hard on himself, even when the fault lay elsewhere.
William.
The name alone sent ice through her veins, then fire, a familiar rage that made her grip on the spear tighten until the wood creaked faintly under her fingers.
That crawling, leering insect—thinking he could send his dogs after her son, after them, just because his fragile pride got scratched. She would end him.
One day, her spear would find his heart, and she'd twist it slowly, watch the light die in those filthy eyes while he begged for mercy he never showed anyone else.
But not today.
Impulse was for fools who wanted to die young. The wilds had taught her better—taught her to breathe through the rage, channel it cold.
So she walked steady, face calm, senses extended like invisible threads into the brush—the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the faint, acrid scent of beast urine marking territory, the distant call of a bird that cut off too abruptly.
David thought this was his fault—that reckless charge in the alley. Foolish child. William's obsession had been festering long before that day, a sickness growing in the shadows.
If anyone failed here, it's me—for letting that leech live this long, for thinking he'd back off if I ignored him hard enough.
When David finally spoke, voice low and rough with guilt, her heart twisted.
"It seems William isn't going to let this matter rest." He kept his eyes on the trail ahead, but every word felt dragged from his chest. "I'm sure he's sent men. After me. Mom... what do you suggest we do?"
She slowed just enough to glance at him, meeting his gaze and letting him see the steel there.
"I'm going to kill him," she said, voice flat and lethal, each word carved from unyielding ice. "Sooner or later. He'll beg before I'm done."
David's eyes widened slightly, but he didn't flinch. Good. He understood.
"But now," she continued, tone measured and sharp, "we play smart. Fake our tracks—lead them through the brush until they're chasing ghosts. Split trails, false signs, maybe leave a little gift they'll regret finding. Something nasty.
Something they won't live to describe."
David nodded slowly, jaw tight, frustration still burning in his eyes—but something darker flickered too. Agreement. Resolve.
They quickened their pace without another word, slipping off the main path into denser scrub where the ground was soft and receptive, the air thicker with the scent of crushed leaves and hidden moisture.
Anna began the deception—snapping branches in one direction with sharp cracks that echoed briefly, pressing deep boot prints into soft soil leading toward a ravine that ended in sheer rock.
David mirrored her, adding weight to false prints, scattering scents with crushed leaves, the sharp tang of broken stems filling the air.
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