Ragnar's confession echoed in her mind—the pain in his voice, the haunted look in his eyes. Each memory fueled her pursuit. Her heart thundered in her ears, her breath grew ragged, but she did not slow. She couldn't stop.
She pictured a younger Ragnar, small and defenseless, trapped in the clutches of that depraved woman. The image hardened her resolve into something merciless. Her single-minded focus sharpened into something terrifying.
Two of them had entered the forest but only one would leave it.
After a while, Circe's pace slowed but not from fatigue. She wanted Irah to believe she had managed to outrun her pursuer, to taste the fragile hope of survival.
Moments later, Irah slowed as well, then stopped abruptly. A wide, fast-moving stream blocked her path, water rushing violently over jagged stones. Trapped. She doubled over, gasping for breath, her body shaking with exhaustion and terror.
That brief distraction was all Circe needed.
She nocked another arrow.
