The logging camp smelled of pine sap and sweat.
Anya emerged from the forest as the sun dipped toward the horizon, staining the clearing in purples and rust. The camp sprawled across the hillside—rough wooden structures, stacked lumber, canvas tents sagging with use. Men moved between the buildings, axes biting into wood, the dull thunks echoing off the valley walls.
She kept to the edge of the clearing. Heads turned as she passed—quick glances, nothing more. The loggers knew better than to stare at armed strangers, especially ones who came back from the deep woods carrying proof of a kill.
Still, she felt their attention. Brief. Curious. Gone the moment she noticed.
The foreman's shack sat at the camp's center. Anya climbed the three warped steps and knocked twice.
"It's open," came the gruff reply.
She pushed the door with her steel hand. The foreman sat behind a desk cluttered with ledgers and a half-eaten plate of cheese. He looked exactly as she remembered—weathered, tired, three fingers missing from his left hand.
"You're back," he said without looking up.
"The boar is dead." Anya dropped her pack. The tusks clattered against the floorboards. "Three days north. Won't be bothering your men anymore."
The foreman stopped writing. He rose, walked around the desk, and knelt to inspect the canvas. His remaining fingers traced the yellowed ivory. He weighed the rolled hide in his hand.
"Clean work," he grunted. "Cleaner than most."
"I do the job right."
"That you do." He crossed to a lockbox, counting coins with practiced speed. "Double rate, like I said. Twenty silver."
Anya swept the coins into her pouch. "I need supplies. Dried meat. Arrows, if you have them."
"Quartermaster'll handle it." He hesitated, fingers resting on the ledger. "You staying the night? Cook's got stew on."
"No. I won't be staying." Anya turned for the door.
"Figured." He finally looked at her. His gaze paused on the steel arm before returning to her face. "Before you go… word of advice?"
Anya paused with her hand on the latch. "I'm listening."
"Had a woman pass through about a week back. Older. Silver hair. Eyes like winter ice."
Anya stopped moving. The small room felt tighter.
"What did she want?"
"Asked questions," the foreman said. "About travelers. Hunters. Asked if we'd seen a girl with a metal arm."
Anya's fingers tightened against the door.
"What did you tell her?"
"That I see a lot of things. That my memory works better when strangers don't interrogate me." He shrugged. "She didn't like it. Didn't press either. Just watched me. Like she was weighing what I knew."
"Where did she go?"
"North. Toward Greyhollow." He paused. "She dangerous?"
"Yes," Anya said.
"She looks it. Watch your back. That one moves like a predator."
Anya gave a short nod, then stopped by the quartermaster long enough to collect the supplies she'd asked for.
Outside, the air had cooled. Anya stepped away from the shack, her breathing tight and controlled.
North.
Cyra was looking for her. After two years of silence, she was moving again. And she was close.
The sounds of the camp blurred together. Anya focused on putting one foot in front of the other as she headed for the road, her thoughts slipping backward despite herself.
---
Two years ago.
The creature lay dead at Anya's feet, its body still twitching.
She stood over it, knife slick with blood, chest rising and falling too fast. It had been quick. Faster than the others. She hadn't expected to survive the fight.
A small smile crept across her face.
"Finally," she said under her breath. "Cyra's going to—"
She stopped.
The hunger tightened in her chest without warning.
Before she could think better of it, she knelt. Her knife widened the wound. Blood welled up, hot and dark.
Her hands shook as she drank.
Just a little.
Enough to steady herself.
The power spread through her chest—familiar, unpleasant, necessary—
A sound behind her.
Not footsteps.
An arrow struck the ground where she'd been standing moments earlier.
Anya lurched to her feet, turning.
Cyra stood at the edge of the clearing.
Her bow was lowered. Not drawn.
She was watching Anya the way she watched everything—quiet, focused, unreadable.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Anya could taste copper. Her hands were still red.
"You didn't clean up," Cyra said at last.
Anya swallowed. "I—"
Cyra's eyes flicked to Anya's mouth.
Understanding set in slowly, then all at once.
She'd been seen.
"How long," Anya asked quietly, "have you known?"
Cyra didn't answer.
She stepped closer instead. Careful. Measured. As if approaching something that might bolt.
"Come with me," Cyra said. "We need to talk."
Anya's skin prickled.
"Why?" she asked.
Cyra hesitated.
Brief. Controlled.
Enough.
Anya stepped back.
Cyra's grip tightened on the bow.
"Anya," she said. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
That was when Anya understood.
Not everything.
Just enough.
She turned and ran.
---
Present Day.
Anya stopped at the edge of the treeline, forcing her breath to slow.
The memory receded, but the tension didn't.
Thunder rolled overhead. Rain began to fall, light at first, tapping against dead leaves.
She pulled her hood up. She couldn't stay here. Couldn't stop.
She turned south—away from Greyhollow. Away from the past.
But the truth stayed with her.
You can run from a hunter.
You can't run from the one who taught you how to track.
Cyra was coming.