#2 Run

Branwen POV

I wake to the blaring of horns. The sound is metallic and ancient, like the gods themselves decided to announce the slaughter. My eyes fly open. For one blissful second I've forgotten where I am.

Then a guard's fist closes around the collar at my throat and yanks me off the cot like I weigh nothing. "Up, witch. Time to dance."

I hit the stone floor barefoot, my snarl half formed, but there's no time to argue. Doors crash open all along the corridor as guards drag prisoners from cages one after the next. We're shoved into a single line, thirty of us, marked for death, leather clad and wide eyed. We are herded toward the exit like cattle to the chopping block.

As soon as the outer gates swing open, icy dawn air blasts my face. I squint through the glare.

Ahead looms a massive iron gate stretched between two jagged stone towers. Beyond it sprawls the Killground, an endless, wild forest that looks more beast than land. Thorny undergrowth, towering trees dripping moss. Red soaked soil. Fog curling low across the ground like breath.

Our arena. I catch movement overhead and lift my gaze. Dozens of metallic cameras perch along the battlements. Some swing on mechanical arms. Others blink atop poles hidden among the trees.

"Are you kidding me," I mutter. "They'll broadcast me picking bogies before they'll bury me."

The entire damned thing is televised, live, for every noble in their velvet chairs and every shifter hiding beyond the border to watch. A show. A bloody spectacle. My middle finger snaps up toward one of the nearest cameras as I flash my best grin. Let the cowards see what I think of them.

A loudspeaker crackles. "WELCOME, CONTENDERS…TO THIS YEAR'S WILDER GAMES!"

The voice is cruelly cheerful. "You thirty criminals have been granted the rarest of mercies. Survive thirty days inside the Killground…and you walk free. Should you be caught by any of our hunting Warlords, you may CHOOSE: surrender your body and become whatever the Warlord chooses…or resist, and be torn apart."

Several prisoners whimper. I roll my neck until it pops.

"When the gun goes off, you run. Supplies, backpacks, food caches, weapons, are hidden throughout the territory. First come, first serve. Survive…or Surrender. Countdown begins NOW."

A glowing red number appears on a stone plinth beside the gate.

10…9…8…

My heart slams against my ribs. Leather bites my thighs as I crouch forward on the balls of my feet. I realize I've left my boots in my cage.

Fuck it. I taste blood in my mouth, copper and adrenaline. A man to my left throws up his stew. Two girls cling to each other, sobbing. Another woman whispers a prayer.

3…2…1.... BOOM. The gunshot splits the air and I run.

Loose stones and roots bite my feet as I sprint full speed into the Killground, ducking low branches and leaping fallen logs like a wild beast myself. All around me bodies scatter. They are panicked, directionless and all screaming. I dodge between them, my legs pumping, my lungs burning.

Branches lash my arms. Mud splashes my legs. I don't care. I run harder. Far behind us the massive iron gate slams shut. Somewhere deeper in the forest, a series of horns answer in reply. Lower. Wilder. Inhuman. The hunters have been released.

"Come on then," I hiss under my breath, pumping my arms faster. "Let's bloody play."

Branches whip my face as I tear through the brush. Most of the others veer right toward the sunlit clearing, fucking fools.

Thats the first place they'll look. I dart left into thick shadows, deeper and darker. Always run opposite the crowd. You don't want to be the slowest sheep when the wolves come.

Once I've put some distance between me and the gate, I scale the nearest oak like I was born bark blooded. My arms wrap around the trunk, toes dig into knots. My muscles remember constantly climbing trees. I clamber twenty feet up and perch like a crow, scanning.

Fog rolls across the forest floor. Shifting shadows. Muffled screams already. Idiots.

Then, movement to the far east.... a large, iron banded crate lies half hidden under a fallen log. "Well, hello there," I whisper.

I drop to the ground in a crouch, soft as moss, my palms pressed flat to the earth. I mutter a quick seeker spell under my breath, ancient witch words taught only to Mosswood girls. It feels for traps, magic wards, shifters waiting in ambush. Nothing.

Good. I sprint in, my knees high, curls flying, and skid to a stop beside the crate. The lid is heavy but a quick shove (and a whispered strength charm) pops it up. Inside is pure luck. A shortbow with a bundled quiver of arrows. Two wicked steel daggers. A rucksack. Four protein bars, two water bottles. And a tiny medical kit (bandages, salve, bone needles, gods bless)

"Oh you cheeky bitch," I breathe, grinning wide. I sling the bow over my shoulder, tuck the quiver in place, and strap both daggers to the insides of my thighs. The leather bites snug, but it's reassuring. Food and water go into the pack with the kit and I pull it tight to my back. "Now we're in business."

I grab hold of a low branch, whisper "leaflight" to my muscles, and vault back up into the canopy like a damned squirrel. Wind whistles through my hair as I leap from one ancient branch to another, using every bit of trick magic I've honed in my covenland forest.

"Quickstep" whispered into my feet.. "Silent tread" woven into my breath...And a little old Mosswood charm so the trees themselves don't rat me out.

I crouch again on a high limb overlooking a deer trail. Far off I hear howls. One. Then two more answering. My chest tightens with adrenaline, terror and excitement if I'm honest.

"Come find me," I whisper to the forest below. But it won't be like they expect. I'm no trembling girl from the walled city.

I'm Branwen Mosswood. Forest witch. Wild born. And this Killground might just be the first place in my whole life where being exactly what I am… might help me survive.

I perch on my branch, my heartbeat slowing as I catch my breath. Then I hear it, a muffled squeal. Human and familiar. The creep from the wagon. The old man who grabbed my arse. Curiosity gets the better of me. I crawl along the limb on my belly, part the leaves, and look down into the clearing below. He's flailing and whimpering. Half naked from the knees down. Two enormous… creatures stand over him.

One is a hulking beast, easily eight feet tall, all muscle and shaggy black fur. His chest is like a mountain, and his knuckles are dragging the dirt. A Gorilla Lord, if the old rumors are true.

The other is sleek, scaled, and monstrously beautiful. He is tall, with golden brown skin, slitted eyes and a forked tongue flicking the air. A bloody Snake Lord. His laughter curls around the clearing like poison. "Are you certain this one is worth eating?"

The Gorilla snorts. "Fragile. Too rotten."

"Play first. Kill after." They kick him back and forth between them like he's a rag doll. The man screams. Pleads. Apologies pour from his mouth. He calls for his wife. His gods. Promises fealty. The Snake Lord swipes out with bladed claws, and slices his belly open in one graceful flick like he's gutting a fish.

He doesn't last long after that. The Snake Lord licks blood from his claws. The Gorilla Lord rips an arm free and gnaws on it like a drumstick.

When they're bored, they toss what's left into the bushes and wander off chuckling. I don't move a muscle. I don't blink. I don't even breathe. When the clearing is finally silent and the monsters lumber out of sight, I unclench my jaw, whisper a shaky curse, and scramble back down the tree.

Note to self: never get caught. I dart deeper into the Killground, weaving between trunks so thick they look ancient. Moss squishes under my bare soles. I keep low and stay quiet. Confident I've lost any watchers.

A twig snaps. My body locks up. Slowly, ever so slowly, I turn. Glowing amber lights burn from the undergrowth ahead, low to the ground, watching me. No… not lights. Eyes.

Creepy, golden, predatory tiger eyes fixed right on mine. My pulse skids. A white striped shape slinks just behind them. His massive shoulders, rippling with muscle, moving silent as mist. The White Tiger Lord.

My heart flies into my throat. My dagger hilt is slick in my palm before I even think, and my breath is shallow. Silence stretches. I try not to move. Not to twitch. Not to run. Because every instinct screams..

...He's hunting me.