The land toward Hollow Ford grew rougher the second day—rockier ground, thinner trees, the kind of terrain that made tracking easier and hiding harder in equal measure.
"Boot prints," Soren said, crouching near a dry creek bed midmorning. "Fresh enough that rain hasn't touched them, old enough that they're not today's."
"Blackthorne pattern?"
"No." He traced the tread with two fingers. "Civilian boots. Worn unevenly on the left heel—someone favoring an injury, or exhausted enough to drag that foot." He looked up at me. "This could be him."
We followed the prints for the better part of an hour before they veered sharply off the main trail, cutting through brush that would have discouraged casual pursuit. Someone had wanted to disappear.
Near midday, I caught a scent thread that didn't
