Chapter 8: No Longer Bound
The forest swallowed them whole.
Branches lashed at their faces as they ran, breath ragged in their throats, soaked to the bone and slick with mud. The wind tore through the trees, and rain hissed on the leaves above. But they didn't stop.
Not until the estate was nothing but a smudge of smoke on the horizon.
Renan stumbled to a halt beneath a twisted pine, one hand braced against its trunk, chest heaving. His vision blurred—whether from rain or exhaustion, he couldn't tell. The others slowed behind him, collapsing into the wet undergrowth.
Marek dropped to his knees, panting. "That… that was close."
Lysa didn't answer. She stood at the edge of the clearing, watching the distant glow of fire rise above the treetops. Her braids clung to her skin, and her shoulders rose and fell with every breath. But she didn't flinch. She didn't turn away.
Ysolde crouched beside Renan, eyes scanning the trees. "No sign of pursuit. Not yet."
Renan wiped water from his eyes. "They'll come. When the fires are out. When they count the missing."
"We'll be long gone by then," Marek said, though doubt edged his voice.
Silence pressed around them, broken only by the wind rattling through the branches. The weight of what they'd done settled in—heavy, vast, irreversible.
The fire.
The escape.
The first step toward something bigger.
Renan felt it in his bones—the shift. The world hadn't changed yet. But he had. The chains were gone, even if the road ahead would be no easier.
Lysa turned finally. Her voice was quiet, but steady. "We keep moving."
They gathered what little they carried—blades, stolen rations, soaked scraps of cloth—and pushed deeper into the forest. The mud slowed them, and their limbs screamed with every step, but the cold bite of the night couldn't dull the fire still burning inside.
Hours passed. Dawn crept through the trees in pale streaks, silver and cold. Birds began to stir, cautious and few. Somewhere behind them, the sky glowed faintly with the last embers of the estate.
Renan walked at the front, eyes sharp, senses stretched thin.
Every sound made his muscles tense—the crack of a branch, the rustle of leaves. The guards wouldn't give up easily. The estate had been a fortress, a place of fear and control. Its masters would want it reclaimed. Retaliation wasn't just likely. It was inevitable.
"We need higher ground," Ysolde said. "If we're going to see where we're headed."
"There's a ridge to the east," Lysa said, pointing. "If we reach it before nightfall, we might find shelter."
They moved in silence. Talking was dangerous, and besides, there was little to say. The damp earth sucked at their feet. The trees grew closer together, and patches of mist curled low to the ground.
By midday, the rain had stopped, but the cold lingered. They paused only once to eat a little of the dried meat Lysa had carried from the shed. It was tough and bitter, but it kept their legs moving.
Renan sat apart from the others as they rested, sharpening his blade with a small stone. He wasn't sure how long the edge would last, but it was better than nothing. His thoughts wandered to those still behind—the ones who hadn't made it to the window, who hadn't dared or hadn't believed.
He clenched his jaw.
They would come back. Not to the estate, but to the people. There were more like them. Hundreds. Thousands, maybe. He couldn't stop thinking about that.
Lysa sat down beside him. "You're quiet."
"Thinking," Renan replied.
She watched him for a long moment. "You blame yourself."
"I don't have time for blame." He paused. "But I won't forget them."
Lysa nodded. "Neither will I."
They rose and pressed on, weaving through the underbrush until the trees began to thin. The ridge loomed ahead, steeper than they expected, its slope tangled with roots and sharp stones.
Climbing was slow. The wet ground made every step treacherous, and more than once, someone slipped and had to be hauled back up by the others. But they reached the top before the sun sank completely.
From the ridge, the land unfurled in a wide, broken patchwork of hills and woods. Smoke still drifted faintly from the direction of the estate, but the fires were dying.
Far in the distance, barely more than shadows, were the outlines of settlements—small, scattered, but there.
"Civilian farms," Marek said, squinting. "Maybe even safehouses, if the rumors are true."
"Too far for tonight," Lysa said. "But it's something."
They made camp just below the ridge, under the shelter of a rock overhang. The fire they built was small, carefully hidden, its smoke masked by the drifting fog. They didn't talk much as they sat around it, sharing warmth and what little food remained.
Ysolde curled up first, exhaustion dragging her down. Marek leaned against the rock wall, arms crossed over his chest, already half-asleep.
Renan stared into the flames.
The heat on his face reminded him of the storehouse fire. Of the torch in Lysa's hand. Of the moment it all changed.
"No longer bound," he whispered to himself, the words like a promise.
Lysa heard him. She didn't speak, but she nodded once, slow and firm.
Outside, the wind howled again, but it no longer sounded like a warning.
It sounded like a beginning.