"That girl is royal property," Liam's uncle whispered. "She bears the falcon mark between her shoulders. I've always heard rumors about it, but I never thought I'd see one with my own eyes. She must have escaped and ended up here."
The information had Liam frowning slightly, and he couldn't help but doubt his uncle's judgment. By calling Kyva royal property, that also meant a slave.
"Look, if we return her back to the Master of Trade, we won't leave empty-handed. You can tell someone like her must have a heavy bounty on her head," his uncle added with certainty.
After realizing what the old man was suggesting, Liam stared at him, unable to believe it. "You want us to return her? Didn't you see the state she was in? Obviously she ran for a good reason. She could barely stand. Royal property or not, we gave her our word. We are to see her safely to the main road by morning."
"And then what?" his uncle's expression thinned, impatience creeping in. "You think the main road means freedom? For anyone without that mark, yes."
He then stepped closer, trying to reason with him. "The Master of Trade governs every caravan, every toll gate, every ship that leaves this province. The road belongs to him. If she sets foot on them, she'll be seized by sunset. And we'll be in trouble as well. Better to be safe than sorry."
Feeling miserably conflicted, Liam glanced back at the tent Kyva slept in before turning to his uncle. As much as he hated to admit it, his uncle was right about everything. The Master of Trade was in charge of all the road, and in her state, she would not make it far before his men caught her. As a seasonal huntsman, there was absolutely nothing he could do in a situation like that.
The Master of Trade was not merely powerful but a scary noble as well. And he was not a merciful man either.
"She won't outrun the riders," his uncle went on, practical as ever. "Nor outbribe the checkpoints. She'll be caught either way. At least this way, we gain something for our trouble."
"But–"
"I have eyes, Liam," his uncle interrupted, studying him for a moment. "You've taken an interest in her, haven't you?"
Those words sounded more like an accusation than pointing out something natural. "You've been hovering around her since the moment she woke up. You look at her as though she's something fragile. But you've only just met that woman."
Liam said nothing.
His uncle's voice dropped. "She is royal property. Do you understand what that means? The falcon mark isn't decoration. Its ownership. Men have been hanged for less than laying a hand on what belonged to the royal trade houses."
"But she is her own person," Liam argued.
"To you," his uncle corrected. "To them, she is an investment. The Master of Trade does not forgive theft. So make no mistake, boy, keeping her would be theft."
The old man looked back at her tent before turning to Liam. "If anyone sees you attaching yourself to a branded property, you won't even see a trial. You'll simply vanish. I won't have that. Listen, right now, she's asleep. By dawn, she'll believe we're still leading her back to the main road. Instead, we'll take her to the Master of Trade. She'll be delivered quickly,and we'll be compensated for it. We found her for a reason. Best not to squander this opportunity."
With that, he began gathering the traps, folding the ropes with methodical care. "Pack light before you sleep."
Clearly, to him, the matter had already been settled. As his uncle carried the traps to put them elsewhere, Liam remained where he stood, unmoving.
—--
As the night deepened, and the last campfires sank into ash, Kyva slipped quietly from her tent.
She had not slept.
Not after what she had heard about the Master of Trade. She hadn't even heard of that name before until… like a couple of hours ago, and now it felt like a blade at her back. She had not escaped one burning cage only to walk into another.
If that was their plan, then she was going to flee from here as well.
For a long moment, Kyva remained crouched on her hands and knees just outside the tent flap, listening.
The wind brushed against the canvas in slow, unhurried sighs, and somewhere beyond the trees, an owl called once, then again. But there were no footsteps. No murmured voices.
The camp lay swallowed in darkness, the moonlight offering little to no help. Only the fire pit still breathed, its embers glowing faintly like dying eyes in the dirt. She recognized the old man by the breath of his shoulders, even in the shadows. Liam lay a short distance away.
His body was turned slightly toward her tent, and Kyva froze. Her heart thundered in her ears as she watched him, certain he would rise, but he did not stir.
Carefully, slowly, she eased the rest of the way out, letting the tent flap fall soundlessly behind her.
Oh no.
Her injured knee nearly gave out the moment she put weight on it. Pain flared hot and sudden, stealing the air from her lungs. But she was prepared for it.
Steadying herself against the rough bark of a nearby post, she waited for the trembling to pass. Then when she felt better, she began to limp toward Liam.
Small travel packs lay beside him. A water skin. A hunting bow within easy reach of his hand. At his uncle's side, she spotted a sheathed dagger resting near the old man's palm and quietly took it as well.
Neither of them stirred.
For a fleeting moment, she wondered if it was foolish of them to lie unguarded in the open. But that concern had faded as quickly as it came.
It did not matter.
It should not matter.
They had planned to return her to the very chains that stole eleven years of her life away. To hand her back to suffering. They might as well have dragged her back into the river and held her beneath the current.
Refusing to lean into the anger and sadness she felt all at once, she focused and took what little she could. Anything heavier than that would slow her.
Then she turned toward the trees.
She limped her way forward, undeterred.
So much for seeking their help.
Trust, she reminded herself, was a luxury she could no longer afford.
It seemed like luck had favored her once again.
Had she slept, she would have woken at dawn to smiling faces and a guided path straight back into captivity.
The thought steeled her.
She was hurt. Exhausted. Alone.
But she was alive.
And as long as she was alive, there was still hope.
She would not give up.
With that quiet vow anchoring her, Kyva disappeared into the woods once more.
Hours after hours passed by.
Kyva continued to navigate her way through the woods using her instincts and the fading moon. More than once, her injured knee faltered, but she refused to stop. Each time, she caught herself on a tree trunk or stumbled forward rather than fall. She feared if she rested, she might not rise up again.
So she kept moving.
The moon drifted westward, thinning into a pale ghost behind the branches. The cold worsened as the night stretched on, seeping through the shirt she had been given. She hugged herself and continued to limp ahead. Owls gave way to silence, and silence gave way to the faint stirring of dawn.
Her steps grew uneven. Her breath came thin. Gradually, the forest began to thin. The trees no longer stood shoulder to shoulder as pale gray light seeped between their trunks, washing the world in a lifeless hue. She had walked the entire night, driven by one thought alone.
Distance.
Distance before they woke up.
Distance before they realized she was gone.
The clearing ahead looked unfamiliar. Direction had longed since blurred into instinct and desperation. For the first time since leaving camp, uncertainty crept in.
"Where to now?" she murmured weakly, looking around.
Her steps slowed despite herself.
Just as Kyva was lost on where else to go, a sharp, frantic sound broke the stillness.
She froze mid-step.
The noise came the second time, sounding thinned, strained, almost pleading, like a distressed whine.
At first, she planned to ignore it.
She was in the wild, perhaps nature was only taking its course.
But when she heard it the third time, something in her chest tightened, and her emotions slipped. There was no use in pretending like she didn't care at all. What if something out there was hurt just like her, or maybe alone?
Unable to stop herself, Kyva turned toward the sound and pushed through a cluster of low brush.
There, caught at the edge of a narrow game trail, was a small fox cub.
Its russet fur was dulled with dirt and streaked with dry blood, one hind leg twisted unnaturally where a hunter's snare had tightened around it. The thin wires bit into its flesh, and each time it struggled, the loop cinched tighter.
When the cub saw it, it bared its tiny teeth in her direction. A weak, trembling growl escaped it, but Kyva's poor heart immediately felt bad for it.
"Oh… you poor thing."
Ignoring the sharp protest in her knee, she crouched slowly, lowering herself to appear smaller and less threatening to the furball. From the looks of it, the cub must have been dragging the trap everywhere it went until it could not. That seemed to explain the cruel damage.
"I'm not going to hurt you," she murmured gently. "Easy now."
To her relief, the cub stared at her for a moment before seizing its growl, and what followed next was a thin, pitiful whimper as it lowered its ears.
"You've been stuck like this for days, haven't you?" she whispered.
The fox let out another small, broken sound this time, and Kyva did not hesitate any longer.
She reached for the dagger at her side and shifted closer. "Don't worry," she promised. "I'll get you out of that trap."