Chapter 12: Dirt in the Blood

Eastern Wilds – Two Days Later

The wind out here didn't carry birdsong—just the dry hiss of branches rubbing together and the brittle crunch of old leaves underfoot. Ren hadn't spoken in hours. Neither had Zarno. There was nothing to say. Not after watching the glow of Daigen Hollow vanish behind them like the end of a small, strange life.

The path had stopped pretending to be a path half a day ago. Now it was just mud, roots, and cold.

Ren crouched at a stream, splashing water over his face. It was sharp as glass. The cold didn't just wake him—it reminded him he was still alive. For now.

Zarno sat on a crooked tree limb behind him, chewing something that looked like dried moss. She offered him a piece. He took it without asking what it was.

"I think she's still behind us," she said quietly.

Ren didn't look up. "I know."

"She's slow, though."

Zarno shrugged. "Then she's not used to running."

Ren spat into the stream. "She's not running. She is after us."

Later – Beneath a Hollow Tree

They camped in silence, halfway beneath the belly of a fallen tree that had split open like an old wound. The air smelled like rot and sap. Ren had used his coat to block the wind on one side. Zarno curled up on the other, tracing something invisible onto the bark.

He watched her.

"Do you regret staying?" he asked suddenly.

Zarno didn't answer at first. Just kept drawing.

Finally, she said, "does that matters?"

Ren lay back on the roots. The pen was tucked in his chest pocket, still warm from earlier. It hadn't written anything since yesterday. Not since the line about the lying stars.

He closed his eyes.

"Maybe it does."

Zarno spoke again after a while.

"If I left, you'd die," she said, matter-of-fact. "Not from the Hunter. From being alone."

Ren didn't reply.

Because she was right.

Somewhere Else – Serel Vann

The road was gone. Burned behind her. She hadn't rested. Whisper-born didn't need to—not in the way others did. They ran until the world bled new routes for them to follow.

And this one was bleeding.

She had followed their trail past the foothills, across the breathless marsh, and into the wilds where even the mapmakers gave up. But she didn't need roads. She had the ink trace.

Ren's pen wasn't just a tool. It was a flare. A wound in reality. Every time it touched a page, it left behind something unnatural.

The world hated it.

She felt it in the way the trees bent wrong near his path. The way animals refused to scavenge near old footprints. As if nature itself was trying to erase him.

She stopped at a patch of moss where Ren had rested hours earlier. His weight still lived in the indent. Her whisperstone vibrated faintly.

She pressed her lips into a thin line.

"Good," she murmured. "That means he hasn't died yet."

Back with Ren and Zarno – Distant Echoes

Ren dreamed of fire.

Not the kind that destroys—one that whispers. Soft, slow crackles in the dark. A memory, maybe. Or a warning. His dream-self stood at the edge of a cliff where the stars had fallen into the sea, and the ocean refused to give them back.

When he woke, Zarno was sitting up, alert.

"What is it?"

She pointed. "Voices. That way."

He strained to hear—then caught it. Faint murmurs. Not Serel. Too many. Moving together. Too heavy for patrols.

"Refugees?" he asked.

Zarno shook her head. "Scouts. Maybe from one of the border keeps. Could be worse."

He rubbed his eyes. "Everything could be worse."

She reached for her bag. "Then we should keep moving "

They left the hollow tree behind them, stepping into mist.

The woods ahead weren't friendly—but neither was anything else.

They were still being watched.

But for now, they were still moving.

And the pen had begun to twitch again in Ren's coat pocket.