They didn't slow until the forest swallowed the road entirely.
Branches closed behind them, the lantern-glow reduced to broken flashes between trunks, then gone altogether. The sounds followed—shouts dissolving into the distance, boots pounding without direction, a horse screaming once before the night reclaimed it.
Only then did Rhys raise a hand.
They stopped in a shallow ravine where roots knotted through stone and the ground dipped just enough to hide a fire if they needed one. He listened—long, still—counting heartbeats, letting the forest speak back.
Nothing followed.
Puddle settled low, its surface dimmed to a faint internal glow, the ripples of agitation slowly smoothing. Through it, Rhys felt the aftermath behind them: scattered movement, fear radiating outward, no clear pursuit, no organized search.
"They're done for the night," he said quietly. "Too shaken to chase. Too scattered to track."
