Hills raised into the sky. Forcing dawn to fight its way over the jagged summit.

  While in the distance a broken camp lay. Remnants of a quiet night, its once embers all dust and grey soot, impressions cleared.

  Two pairs of boots - mismatched in size to one another - trudged through the long grass that covered the plains past the forest clearing. A small incline slightly adjusting the effort required through each leg as the long grass fades and the transition to hard rock begins.

  Light smoke visible over the small summit.

  Not thick. Not signifying danger. For once.

  Normal.

  Amia adjusted her steps without slowing. Whatever waited on the other side of the hills, they were already committed to reaching it.

  The aches on her body still lingered. The pain around her shoulders and legs sporadic, but light.

  Manageable.

  The incline had begun to increase some more. Loose shale leading up like a path to the ridgeline.

  Exposure to the open wind slightly uncomforting. The past twenty four hours of Amia mostly being surrounded by trees disorienting her usual threshold for open air. It made her body feel almost naked, even with her cape sheltering her tunic.

  Her belt hung low, loose where it should have been snug. Her sheathed katana drooping it slightly lower on one side. The point from her ribs to her hip uninterrupted and deliberate.

  With each step the material around her firm buttocks shifted with quiet insistence, stretched and filled with fair skin and muscle that had been earned rather than sculpted.

  Each inclined step now sending the aches of her body to centre around her ribs. Amia biting her lip as she breathes through the discomfort, adamant on keeping to her current pace.

  Just like her run toward the bridge. The sound of a taller figure downhill from her continues to maintain its distance. Almost an exact distance every time.

  Almost familiar.

  One last step through her strained legs as Amia clears the ridgeline and the rocks beneath her feet start to even out.

  They had made it to the top.

  The summit extended unevenly for a ways away before it disappears out of few - signifying the easier walk down to where the town should be. A worn and dull path appearing into view, showing its use over the years.

  It wasn’t a long walk before an overturned wagon emerged within their sights, but its remaining wheel half what it originally was and hanging by its axle - otating randomly from the wind.

  A quick scan by Amia and it didn’t take long for her to determine the speed that its occupant must have been going before it flipped.

  No smell of blood, just the remaining trickles of adrenaline and fear.

  Amia slams her foot into an unopened chest - just slightly wider than the width of her - sending the top flying,

  “They won’t be needing it any more than I do.”

  Rummaging through its contents and pulling bits and pieces out into her pouch.

  She looks behind her.

  No judgment. Just a shrug.

  The woman turns her head back to the horizon in the direction that they were headed.

  Good.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The wind is stronger up here. Its gusts flapping their capes up every few breaths.

  “Let’s keep going,” Amia says sternly. Her brows furrowed in determination. “We’ll keep following this path down to the town.”

  The path over the summit twisted every few paces.

  “We probably won’t make it to the town until near sundown at this point,” she continues. Frustration becoming evident in her voice.

  More time passed as the pair navigated the paths which now have parts covered with shale again.

  Each time navigating their steps across it biting into their time that Amia had desperately tried so hard to protect.

  The strain in Amia’s ribs were starting to feel tighter at this point. Every step navigating the rocks of the shale in the descent starting to bring imbalance to her legs.

  She could sense the figure that would normally be a few paces behind her being much closer this time. A large hand hovering near her elbow, constantly so close during her imbalance but always pulling back when she recovered.

  Eventually, the descent takes them to a path where a switchback lay, just before a blind corner.

  It wasn’t as bright anymore. The sun had shifted lower since the last time she checked.

  The hum of the wind and environment also seemed to be quieter in this area.

  A bit too quiet.

  An uneasy feeling start to creep into Amia’s senses.

  She pulls the hood of her cape over her head.

  Turning the blind corner, a trio of men stood where the path narrowed.

  Not soldiers of the Madura Empire. Not disciplined. Weapons held wrong - too tight, too steady, and too unsure.

  “Road’s closed,” one said. Though nothing marked it so.

  Amia stopped three paces away.

  “It isn’t.” She replied.

  They looked past her - then, to the woman behind her. The breadth of her shoulders. The uncanny length and width of her katana. The unblinking gaze.

  The silence.

  One of them swallowed.

  “She doesn’t talk much?” He asked.

  “No.” Amia said.

  That seemed to have unsettled them more than a threat would have.

  They stepped aside.

  And no blade left its sheath.

  As they descended the path down the switchback, every movement slowly brought the town more into view.

  Some windows lit up as they prepared for the dim light of the sunset.

  They were close enough that they would make it into the town before nightfall.

  It wasn’t far now.

  The pair can see where the light smoke over the hills was coming from now.

  Chimneys had smoke ascending from its top, and the stalls at the market still had vendors serving its customers.

  A dog barks in the distance, and the sound of hammering from a smithy could be heard amongst the muted chatter.

  Normalcy.

  Walking through the streets, Amia caught a scent.

  Not blood, not Magick.

  Something faint.

  Sweet.

  Almost innocent.

  Something in the air beneath smoke and ale that did not seem to belong here.

  Not “wild” like villagers.

  Controlled.

  She doesn’t identify it. She just frowns.

  It smelled clean.

  Too clean.

  She shakes it off.

  As Amia continues her walk through the street, a passing villager mutters to his friend.

  “Refugees from Madura passed through yesterday. Someone said that apparently the bridge is chaos now.”

  Amia does not react visibly.

  But she hears it.

  Amia turns to the follower that has been trailing her since yesterday, now just realising that she too has the hood of her cape over her head.

  “I hope you drink, because I need one.”

  Not once breaking her stride as she crossed the street towards the tavern.

  The sun had disappeared over the landscape to the west. Whatever light that was left painting a mixture of purple and dark orange as the darkness of the sky closed in.

  A sign above her creaks as it sways in the wind. Amia pushing the tavern door to reveal the warmth and the low murmurs of the occupants inside.

  It smelled thick with the smell of beer, warm stew, and wood polish.

  And beneath it-

  The same scent again.

  Sweet.

  Controlled.

  Moving.

  Somewhere outside..

  She pauses mid-step.

  The follower that’s been behind her notices.