Chapter 3 – Tracks Bound by Memory
958 Words
“Spit it out. I'm not drinking anything until you tell me what's in it."
Avril held the steaming cup just beyond his reach. “Pine needles. Willow bark. Ashroot."
Northen raised an eyebrow. “Ashroot's a suppressant. It slows shifting."
She didn't blink. “And you're not ready to shift."
“How would you know?"
“Because your hands were trembling when you tried to spark a fire."
“I was cold."
“You were afraid," she said simply.
He didn't respond. After a beat, he took the cup.
They sat on a boulder overlooking the misty valley below. The forest had thinned, the snow turning slushy beneath their boots. Wild geese cried in the gray sky above.
Northen sipped the tea. Bitter. He grimaced.
“That bad?"
“Tastes like wet leather."
“Then it's working."
He stared at her. “You're good at this. Healing. Surviving."
“I've had practice."
“You say that a lot."
She shrugged. “It's the truth."
They had been on the road for five days—through forest, over thawing hills, past quiet hamlets where Avril healed sick farmers in exchange for bread and coin. Northen sang by the campfire sometimes, melodies buried in his bones. Avril listened in silence.
Each morning he woke forgetting something small. The color of his scarf. The joke he made the night before. One time, he forgot her name.
That one hurt.
Now, he walked beside her, hands in pockets, frown etched deep. “Do you think... someone erased my memories on purpose?"
“Yes."
He stopped. “That's it? No hesitation?"
“You fit the pattern."
“What pattern?"
“Memory gaps. Silver in your blood. You called fire like it belonged to you. You're not some lost villager, Northen."
He sat down on a fallen tree. “Then what am I?"
She sat beside him. “I think you were part of something bigger. Something cruel."
His hand clenched. “And I forgot it."
“Maybe that's the only reason you're alive."
He turned to her slowly. “What if I don't want to forget anymore?"
She didn't answer.
They heard the merchant's cart before they saw it—creaking wheels, clinking pots, and an old wolf humming out of tune.
“Travelers!" the merchant barked. “Need blades? Blankets? Crystals that glow at night?"
“We don't have much," Avril said.
“I trade, too. Rare herbs? Spells? Or songs. Songs are worth silver."
Northen grinned. “We have songs."
As Northen sang—soft, low, the kind of voice that warmed your chest—Avril handed over a pouch of dried herbs. The merchant leaned forward, squinting at Northen's face.
“You said your name was?"
“Northen."
The old man paled.
“What?" Northen asked.
The merchant fumbled in his pack, pulling out a crumpled wanted poster. He held it beside Northen's face.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
“Silver-Flame Candidate," the merchant whispered. “Escaped from the Empire's core sector. They're offering five hundred coins for your return. Alive."
Avril moved before Northen could blink.
She shoved a vial into the merchant's hands. “Swallow that."
“What—"
“Memory draught. Forget this hour. Or I'll burn your herbs and your wheels."
The man hesitated, then drank.
Avril grabbed Northen's arm. “We need to go."
They sprinted into the trees.
“What the hell was that?" he panted.
“You're not just a soldier," she said breathlessly. “You're property."
Branches lashed their faces. Rain began to fall—icy, fast. In the distance, a howl pierced the clouds.
Northen stopped dead. “That wasn't a normal wolf."
“No."
He turned to her slowly. “What *was* that?"
“Imperial hounds," she whispered. “They're hunting you."
“And they'll find us," he said, voice rising. “Because of me."
“No, Northen."
“You should leave. Now."
She stepped forward, grabbed his face. “Look at me."
He did.
“You are not the problem. The people who made you forget—that's the problem. I won't leave."
His breathing slowed. Her hands were cold against his cheeks, but her eyes—steady. Unshakable.
“Why?" he asked.
She swallowed. “Because I remember enough for both of us."
His voice dropped. “Have we met before?"
She froze.
A heartbeat passed.
“No," she said.
But the lie rang sharp and bitter in her mouth.
---
That night, they camped in a hollow beneath storm-thick skies. Avril carved runes into the stones around the fire—symbols older than the empire. Northen watched in silence, fingers brushing the leather pouch she'd sewn for him two nights before.
“I'm forgetting again," he said quietly.
She nodded.
“I hate it."
“I know."
“You're still here."
She offered a half-smile. “So are you."
He reached out, his fingers grazing her braid. “You always hum when you're afraid."
“I'm not afraid."
“You are."
She didn't pull away.
A single drop of rain fell between them, hissing into the fire.
Then another howl—closer this time.
Avril rose. “Pack your things. We move before dawn."
“Where are we going?"
“Up," she said. “To the pass. They won't follow through cursed terrain."
He grabbed her wrist. “Avril."
She turned.
“Even if I forget everything," he said, “don't stop running with me."
She hesitated. Then said, very softly, “I won't."
But in her chest, the ache ticked louder—every step forward carving days from her dwindling clock.
And behind them, across the soaked hills, a silver-standard banner rose under a thundercloud, marked with the crest of the Empire.
They were coming.
- Writer
