Thorns between us

Nine: Tracks

Drayk’s POV

The burns itched. Holy iron leaves a scar. Mine were already scabbing over in black.

_“Faster,”_ the voice said. _“Before they scab.”_

“I’m walking,” I said.

West. That’s where the tug was. Faint. Like a thread tied to my ribs and pulled. No horse. No cloak. No knife. Just me. Ash on my skin and iron scars on my wrists.

I walked through the night The forest thinned Ground got soft Marsh again.The tug got stronger near water.I followed it.

By dawn I found the first sign.

Footprints. Bare. Small.In the mud. Not fresh.A day old. Maybe two. Toes pointed west.Same direction as the tug.I crouched. Touched one. Cold. But the water in it was still. No bugs had gotten to it yet.

“She was here,” I said.

_“She’s moving,”_ the voice said. _“Keeping ahead.”_

Good. That meant she was alive. That meant she was running. I stood and followed.

More signs.

A broken branch. Too high for an animal. Someone pushed through in a hurry. Black flowers. Not real ones. The kind that grow where blood hits rot. Small. Five petals. Dead in the middle. I’d seen them before. In the courtyard. After.

_“She’s bleeding,”_ the voice said.

“Or she’s using it,” I said.

Another mile and I found cloth. Torn. Dark fabric. Caught on thorns. I picked it up. Smelled it. Marsh water. Iron. And her. I put it in my pocket. The tug pulled harder. She was close. Maybe half a day. Maybe less.

_“Don’t run,”_ the voice said. _“Don’t scare her.”_

“I won’t,” I said.

Midday.

I hit a stream.

The water was black.

Not dirty. Stained.

And in the middle of it, on a rock— A print. A hand. Small. Palm down. Fingers spread. The black around it was fresh. She’d stopped here. Washed. Maybe hid. I knelt. Put my hand over hers. Same size. Same shape.

The water moved. Not with the current. Against it.

_“She used it,”_ the voice said. _“To hide her trail.”_

“Clever,” I said.

I followed the stream anyway. Because clever doesn’t mean gone. It just means harder.

The tug turned north here. Off the stream. Into deeper marsh.

The deeper I went, the quieter it got. No birds. No insects. Just water and my breathing.

And then I found it.

A camp.

Not a real one. Just a hollow under a fallen tree. Leaves pulled over it.Mud smoothed around the entrance.

She’d slept here.

Recently.

There was a circle of stones.In the middle, ash. Not from a fire. From a spell.

Black lines were drawn in the dirt. Same language she used on the pyre. In the dream.

I crouched and touched it. It was still warm.

_“Hours,”_ the voice said. _“Maybe less.”_

I looked around. No footprints leading out. Because she’d walked in the water. Again.

Smart girl.

But she’d left something. On a root, near the back. A braid. Hair. Dark. Tied with thread.

Not cut.

Pulled out.

My chest went tight.

_“She’s hurt,”_ the voice said.

“Or she’s bait,” I said.

I picked it up. Wrapped it around my wrist. Under the iron scars. The tug pulled north. Hard.

I moved faster.

Through mud. Through reeds. Through water up to my knees. The sun was going down. The marsh was going dark. And then the tug stopped. Just stopped. Like someone cut the thread.

I froze.

Listened. Nothing. No water moving. No breathing.

_“She’s close,”_ the voice said. _“Or she’s gone.”_

I walked in a circle.

Found nothing. No footprints. No cloth. No flowers.

Just marsh.

I called out.

Once. Low.

“Dionne.”

The sound died in the reeds.

No answer.

I stood there for a long time.

Holding the braid. Staring at nothing.

She was here. She was close. She knew I was coming. And she left.

_“She’s scared of us,”_ the voice said.

“I know,” I said.

I didn’t yell again.

I sat down in the mud where she’d last been.

And waited.

Because if she was running from me,

running from this thing in me,

then chasing her would only push her farther.

So I waited.Burns aching.Tug gone.Night coming. She left signs.That meant she wanted me to find them. That meant she wasn’t done.

_“We’ll find her,”_ the voice said.

“We will,” I said. Not tonight. But soon.