7 | Wolfsbane

*** Nailo’s POV

I was almost asleep when I heard it—the sound of nothing. Winter sounds are limited, but there’s always the slight hum of nightlife, even in the dungeons. The scurrying and scampering of small creatures, the distant rustle of leaves. But the sound of silence? That always woke me up—it usually meant they were close.

I felt that familiar sense of dread creeping up on me now. Peeking out from my hiding place under the evergreens, I saw that the moonlight had revealed the start of snowfall. Such luck; it could cover my tracks.

Tentatively, I slipped out from under the branches, testing the strength in my legs. Surprisingly, I had some. Hematite might just be my new favorite “jewel.” Testing my legs further, I crouched and began to take wide steps, keeping my movements as quiet as possible. Luckily, I have small feet, and at the rate the snow is falling, I imagine it’ll only take about ten minutes to cover my tracks from any casual observer.

Praying that my decoy tracks will buy me enough time, I start heading in what I think is south—back toward home, or whatever might be left of it.

After a while, the cold starts to seep into my bones, and I realize I need to warm up my body. I break into a slight trot, trying to build up some heat in my muscles.

The moon has begun to fade, and I imagine the sun will be rising sooner rather than later. Despite the cold, I’m feeling surprisingly light on my feet—almost euphoric. But it’s a dangerous kind of euphoria, the kind that makes your mind slip, just enough to let the danger in.

Suddenly, I start to stumble. Before I fully register what’s happening, I’m vomiting… rocks. The sensation is awful, almost indescribable.

After a few moments, the nausea subsides, and I look down at a pile of the beautiful river stones that had saved me from my self-inflicted wolfsbane overdose.

A small price to pay.

“Could be worse, Nailo,” I mumble to myself before moving on, my steps now a bit more cautious, the weight of my situation pressing down on me again.

—-----

Ever since I left my hiding cubby by the riverbank, I’ve had the unsettling feeling of being watched. The sensation gnaws at me, even when I circle back on my tracks to check for signs of a stalker. I find nothing, no broken branches or disturbed snow, yet the feeling lingers, an unwelcome companion in the silence of the forest.

The snow let up just before dawn, and the slight warmth of the morning began to melt the snow around me. I use this to my advantage, carefully maneuvering over rocks and fallen trees, minimizing my tracks wherever possible. I’m positive I’m traveling south now, and with that confidence comes a chance to think, to piece together the scattered fragments of my life.

I’m in much better condition than I should be, better even than when I woke up in that damned infirmary. They never allowed me to heal this much before. Thinking about that room still sends a shiver down my spine. People were healing in there—truly healing. That wasn’t a luxury I’d been afforded in years.

The only time I’d ever managed a real escape attempt was when Javier had tied a noose around my neck and hung me from the main gates. It was punishment for biting him the first time he tried to force himself on me. My wolf hadn’t been completely broken then, and I was able to shift just enough to cut the ropes and drop into the mud. I’d almost made it to the woods before they struck me down with arrows. Javier had taken great pleasure in pulling the barbed quills out of my back, only to drive them back in, deeper this time. His creativity in torture was boundless, and after that, they collared me, severing the connection to my wolf entirely.

Yet here I am, in better shape than I should be. I should be feeling the cold, the exhaustion, the ache of a body pushed too far, but I don’t. I can’t. I’ve been so numb for so long that even the pain feels distant, dulled. And why am I not feeling the cold? Wolves don’t feel cold, but I don’t have my…wait. My wolf. Could she still be there? Alive, buried beneath all the layers of hurt and hopelessness? The thought is almost too much to hope for, too much to bear.

Focus, Nailo. Priorities should be food and shelter before night falls again.

I need to think, to plan. I’m good at hiding my tracks, better than most, but even so, they should have found me by now. I was their “pride and joy,” their favorite pet to parade at parties. They used me in their sick games, pitting slaves against each other with the promise of a night with a Luna as the prize. But I’d seen the horror in the eyes of those who won, who knew that the real punishment was in surviving the tournament.

I shake off the memories. Numbness is creeping in again, not just from the cold, but from the constant, grinding pressure of survival. But then, why am I not feeling the cold? It’s not normal. I should be freezing, but I’m not. Does that mean my wolf might not be dead? Could she still be there, just out of reach, waiting for the right moment to come back to me?

Hope is a dangerous thing. It can lift you up just to dash you against the rocks. But maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance.

Focus, Nailo. You need food and shelter. The sun is creeping higher, and you don’t have much time before it starts to set again. You need to keep moving, keep thinking, keep hoping. But not too much. Never too much.