They ran for what felt like hours. Samaire knew they hadn’t, but every exhausted step felt like an age. They stumbled through the woods, leaving broken branches and muddied footprints. Her lungs burned red hot. She couldn’t help but twist to glance over her shoulder, watching for shadows that didn’t belong. All she saw were woods.
The chain bounced and clanked, snagging in bushes before being ripped free by their panicked run. Trees and thorns blurred past, the straps of her pack bruising her shoulders. Jumping over fallen logs, she tried to keep pace with the manthing. It ran like it didn’t quite know how to use its legs, but it was faster than any man she knew.
Samaire had been watching the world behind her when they reached a river. Slipping in the mud, a shock rippled through her limbs. She sat sprawled on the bank, her bones and muscles aching. The manthing had collapsed in the water, breathing desperately. Samaire wanted to get to her feet, to run again, but she could not lift herself from the mud. Instead, she leaned back on her hands, chain still wound about her arm.
For many moments, they simply breathed, recovering from their desperate sprint. Samaire stared up at a gap in the trees, at stars spilled across the heavens. Thank Spirits, there were stars. Her cracked lips split into a grin and suddenly she found herself laughing. It was a frantic sound, half relief, half terror. She laughed, even as her ribs and lungs protested, tears prickling behind her eyes. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop the relief flooding her veins. She was alive, gloriously alive, and she laughed until her elbows gave out and she collapsed on top of her pack. Something pressed into her spine uncomfortably. Samaire deflated, her laughter fading into ragged breaths.
“Spirits,” she murmured, soaked in mud and too tired to move. “Spirits.”
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