The wind screamed as they ran.
Not a metaphor. Not poetic. The wind actually screamed, through the trees, between the rocks, past the open mouths of the dead left behind.
Boots slammed into mud, tore through brush. Breathing was loud. Coughing louder. Someone tripped behind him.
Merlin didn't look back.
Rethan didn't look back.
He kept running. Legs burning. Shoulder scraped. Blood somewhere on his sleeve, he didn't know if it was his. Didn't check.
Cas sprinted beside him, sword half-drawn. His face was tight. Focused. But his eyes weren't forward. They kept flicking back.
"Don't," Merlin said.
"I wasn't—"
"You were."
Cas cursed. Loud. Real. "They're still behind us."
"I know."
He could hear them too. No war drums. Just that awful, wet stomp of something not built to walk right.
Footsteps that didn't care about direction.
Only closing distance.
"You see Thom?" Cas asked.
"No."
"Arie?"
"No."
The trees broke.
