Chapter 4: Flight

  The creak of floorboards outside my door wakes me from a restless sleep. I sit up immediately, my ears swiveling toward the sound, my heart already racing. For a moment I think it is Marta coming to wake me as she promised, but the footsteps are wrong. Too heavy. Too many of them.

  Moonlight still filters through the gaps in the shutters. It is not yet dawn, not yet time for my quiet departure. Something is wrong.

  I am out of bed before the thought fully forms, grabbing my pack with one hand while the other reaches for the window latch. The footsteps stop outside my door. I hear the low murmur of voices, the creak of leather, the distinctive click of a sword being loosened in its scabbard.

  The door crashes open just as I wrench the window shutters apart.

  Captain Aldric stands in the doorway, his face illuminated by the lantern one of his guards holds. Behind him, I can see two more guards filling the narrow hallway. His eyes find me immediately, crouched on the windowsill, one foot already outside.

  "You made this easy." He smiles, but there is no warmth in it. "Thought you'd be smarter than to stay in one place." His hand rests on his sword hilt. "Now you can add fleeing arrest to your list of crimes."

  I do not wait to hear more. I throw myself through the window into the cold night air.

  The ground is three stories below. For a human, the drop would mean broken bones or worse. But this body knows what to do. My tail extends for balance, my legs coil, and I twist in midair to face the wall of the building across the narrow alley. My claws find purchase in the old stone, digging into gaps between mortar, and I am climbing before my mind fully catches up with what my body is doing.

  Above me, Aldric's voice roars. "Archers on the rooftops! Close the gates! Do not let her escape!"

  The night air is cold against my fur, but I barely notice. Everything narrows to the next handhold, the next foothold, the next movement upward. I reach the roof and pull myself over the edge just as a crossbow bolt shatters against the stone where my head was a moment before.

  I run.

  The rooftops of Millhaven spread before me, a maze of angles and gaps and treacherous footing. My enhanced vision picks out the details in the moonlight, the loose tiles that might give way, the gaps between buildings that I will need to leap, the shadows where I might hide if only for a moment. But there is no time for hiding. Behind me, I can hear guards shouting, coordinating, spreading out to cut off my escape routes.

  The town looks different from up here than it did from ground level. The familiar streets and alleys become abstract patterns, dark channels between the lighter masses of rooftops. Chimney stacks rise like scattered sentinels, some still trailing smoke from banked fires. Clotheslines stretch between buildings like tripwires waiting to catch the unwary.

  I leap from one roof to another, my body covering the distance with terrifying ease. The landing jars my legs, but I absorb the impact and keep moving. My tail streams behind me, making constant adjustments to my balance as I sprint across uneven surfaces. The tiles beneath my feet are cold, still damp with night dew, and I have to place each step carefully to avoid slipping.

  A whistle pierces the night air, then another, guards signaling to each other across the town. The sound comes from multiple directions now, surrounding me, closing in. They have practiced this, I realize. Coordinated pursuit is not something that happens by accident. Captain Aldric has trained his men for exactly this kind of hunt.

  I change direction, heading east toward the gate that was supposed to be my quiet exit, but even as I run, I hear more whistles ahead. They have anticipated my path.

  The eastern gate will be closed and guarded. That route is dead.

  I pivot north, looking for another way out, but the buildings here are taller and more tightly packed. The gaps between rooftops stretch wider, the jumps more dangerous. I take them anyway, because the alternative is capture, and capture means something worse than broken bones.

  A crossbow bolt hisses past my ear, so close I feel the wind of its passage. I drop flat against the roof, and a second bolt flies through the space where my body was a heartbeat before. My ears swivel, triangulating the shooter's position. There, on a taller building to the west, a guard with a crossbow is already cranking back for another shot.

  I cannot stay still. I push off and run in a crouch, making myself a smaller target, zigging and zagging across the rooftop. Another bolt cracks against the tiles behind me, and then I am leaping again, sailing across a gap that seems impossibly wide.

  My hands catch the edge of the next building, my claws digging into the wood. For a terrifying moment I hang there, my legs swinging in empty air, my muscles screaming with the effort of holding on. Then I pull myself up and over, rolling across the roof to absorb my momentum.

  No time to rest. I am running again before I even fully regain my feet.

  The night has become chaos. Torches flicker in the streets below as guards converge on my position. Voices shout directions and warnings. Somewhere a dog is barking, aroused by the commotion. The sounds paint a picture of a net closing around me, tightening with every passing moment.

  I need higher ground. I need to see where they are concentrating their forces, where the gaps might be.

  Ahead, rising above the other buildings, I spot the church spire. Its roof is steep and high, with a weathervane at its peak. If I can reach it, I can see the entire town spread out below me. I can find a way out.

  The route to the church takes me across a dozen rooftops, each leap a fresh gamble, each landing a small miracle. My body moves with increasing confidence, the nekojin instincts that guide my movements becoming more fluid, more natural. This is what this form was built for, I realize. Speed and agility and the ability to navigate spaces that would be impossible for larger, heavier creatures.

  But it is more than instinct. When I leap, my body twists at exactly the right angle. When I land, my weight distributes perfectly. These movements feel practiced. Refined. The product of years of training, not three days of stumbling adaptation.

  My hands find holds I should not know are there. My feet land on surfaces I should not trust. When I roll across the rooftop, my arms protect my head automatically—not animal reflex, but disciplined technique.

  Someone taught me this. Someone spent years training this body to move, to fight, to survive.

  I just cannot remember who. Or when. Or why.

  The void where those memories should be aches like a missing limb. I was someone before I woke in that inn. I lived a life. I learned things.

  And then I forgot everything.

  I reach the church and scramble up the severe pitch of its roof. The tiles here are older, some of them loose, and twice I nearly lose my grip as stone crumbles beneath my claws. But I keep climbing, driving myself upward, until I reach the narrow beam beside the weathervane.

  From here, Millhaven spreads out below me like a map in the moonlight. I can see the guards now, at least a dozen of them scattered through the streets, their torches marking their positions like fireflies. They are concentrated to the east and north, blocking the main roads out of town. The western district has fewer guards, but I can see movement there too, patrols circling, searching.

  And to the south, the river. Dark water glinting in the moonlight, maybe twenty feet wide, running fast toward the sea. Beyond it, forest. Dense and dark and promising cover.

  There are almost no guards near the river. They are assuming I will try for the gates, the normal exits. They are not expecting me to flee into the wilderness.

  That is my path. It has to be.

  But even as I make this decision, I hear the creak of a crossbow being cranked. My ears swivel toward the sound, and I see him, a guard on a rooftop two buildings away, his weapon leveled at me. Our eyes meet across the distance, and I know I have exactly one heartbeat before he fires.

  I throw myself from my perch just as the bolt flies. It strikes the weathervane with a metallic clang, making it spin wildly, but I am already falling, sliding down the steep pitch of the church roof in a controlled descent. My claws dig into the tiles just enough to slow me without stopping me completely.

  I hit the edge of the roof and leap without hesitation, my body acting on pure instinct. The gap to the next building seems impossibly wide, but my legs know their strength, my tail knows how to guide my trajectory, and somehow I am landing on the opposite roof, rolling to absorb the impact, coming up running.

  Another bolt cracks against the tiles behind me. Then another. The archer is tracking me, adjusting for my movement, getting closer with each shot. I cannot keep running in a straight line.

  I cut left, then right, then leap to a lower rooftop, then immediately spring to a higher one. The unpredictability is exhausting, burning through energy I do not have to spare, but it keeps the bolts from finding their mark. Behind me, I hear the archer cursing, calling for support.

  The buildings blur past as I run south toward the river. My world narrows to the next handhold, the next leap, the next breath. My claws scratch and grip on different surfaces. Slate tiles that are smooth and treacherous. Wooden shingles that splinter under pressure. Stone that offers solid purchase but no give.

  I am getting closer. I can smell the water now, that distinctive scent of mud and fish and green growing things. The forest beyond it promises safety, obscurity, a place where I can disappear and never be found.

  But the buildings are thinning out as I approach the town's edge. The rooftops are lower, the gaps wider, the running more dangerous. And the guards are adapting, some of them moving south to intercept me, their torches bobbing through the streets below like malevolent stars.

  I leap from a residential building to a shop roof, and my foot catches on something invisible in the darkness. A clothesline stretched between buildings, and it wraps around my ankle with cruel efficiency. I am yanked backward, my body twisting in midair, and then I am falling.

  I hit the roof on my shoulder, the impact driving the air from my lungs. For a terrifying moment I am sliding backward toward the edge, toward the three-story drop to the cobblestones below. My claws scramble for purchase, finding nothing but smooth tiles that offer no grip.

  Then my fingers catch the clothesline itself. I pull, ripping the line free from its moorings, and use the momentum to swing myself back toward the center of the roof. The fabric wrapped around my ankle tears free, taking a patch of fur with it, but I am alive. I am still moving.

  I push myself up and keep running, not letting myself think about how close that was.

  The river is visible now, a dark ribbon cutting through the edge of town. The last buildings stand between me and the water, lower structures that once housed fishermen and dock workers. Beyond them, a narrow stretch of muddy bank, then the river, then freedom.

  A guard steps out onto the roof ahead of me, blocking my path. He is big, bigger than the others, and he holds a short sword in one hand. His eyes track my approach, calculating the angle, preparing to intercept.

  I do not slow down. I cannot slow down. Instead, I drop to all fours and sprint straight at him, using this body's natural speed and agility. His sword swings through the space where my head would have been if I had been running upright. I pass beneath his arm, close enough to feel the heat of his body, and then I am past him, launching myself off the edge of the roof toward the next building.

  His curse follows me through the air, but he cannot match my speed, cannot make the leaps I make. I hear him calling for backup, but I am already moving, already putting distance between us.

  The last building is a warehouse of some kind, its roof flat and tarred. I cross it in seconds, and then I am at the edge, looking down at the muddy bank and the dark water beyond.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  It is far. Too far for a safe jump. The bank is steep and slippery, the river fast and cold. If I misjudge the landing, if I hit the water wrong, I could drown before I make it to the other side.

  Behind me, torches are converging. Guards are reaching the warehouse, their boots pounding on the stairs inside. In seconds they will burst through the roof access door, and then it will be over.

  I do not let myself think. I just jump.

  The air rushes past me, cold and sharp. My stomach lurches as I fall. The muddy bank rushes up to meet me, and I twist in midair, trying to position myself for the impact.

  I hit the mud at an angle, my legs absorbing some of the shock before my momentum carries me forward into a roll. The mud is cold and slick, coating my fur, filling my nose with its earthy stench. I come up running, my feet slipping and sliding on the treacherous ground, and then I am at the water's edge.

  The river is faster than it looked from above, darker than I imagined. I can see the current churning, carrying debris downstream at frightening speed. The far bank seems impossibly distant, a thin line of darkness against the darker forest beyond.

  A crossbow bolt strikes the mud beside me, splattering my leg with cold earth. There is no more time for hesitation.

  I dive into the river.

  The cold is a shock, driving the breath from my lungs, making my muscles seize. The current grabs me immediately, pulling me under, tumbling me end over end. Water fills my nose, my mouth, choking off my scream. My clothes become heavy anchors, dragging me down. The cold is so intense it feels like burning, every nerve in my body screaming in protest.

  I kick desperately, fighting my way back to the surface. My head breaks through and I gasp for air, but the current pulls me under again before I can fill my lungs. Debris strikes me as I tumble, branches and leaves and other detritus carried along by the flow. Something solid hits my hip, spinning me around, disorienting me further.

  The provisions Marta gave me tear free from my pack, disappearing into the dark water. I feel other things slipping away too. The map Lyra drew. The careful notes about safe routes and tolerant towns. The dried meat and cheese that were supposed to sustain me until I found safety.

  All of it, claimed by the river.

  But I do not stop fighting. I cannot stop. My arms and legs move on instinct, pushing against the water, searching for anything solid. My tail thrashes uselessly, more hindrance than help in the churning current. This body is not built for swimming. These limbs know how to climb and leap and run, but water is an alien element that does not respond to the same rules.

  My shoulder hits something hard. A rock. Pain explodes through my upper arm, but the impact changes my trajectory, pushing me toward the far bank. I grab for anything, my claws catching on submerged roots. The roots are slick with algae, threatening to slip free, but I dig in with desperate strength.

  I pull, drag myself forward, inch by desperate inch. The current fights me every moment, trying to tear me free, trying to pull me back into the churning darkness. My muscles burn with the effort. My lungs scream for air. But I keep pulling, keep dragging, refusing to let the river win.

  The water rages against me, but slowly, agonizingly, I make progress. My hands find mud, then grass, then solid earth. I haul myself out of the water and collapse on the far bank, coughing up river water, my whole body shaking with cold and exhaustion.

  Behind me, across the water, I hear them. The guards. Their voices carry through the air, distorted by distance and the rush of the river, but clear enough for my enhanced ears to parse their words. "Should we go after her? Find a crossing point?"

  Another voice, harder and more authoritative—probably Captain Aldric. "No. Let the river have her. She's as good as dead anyway. No point risking men's lives chasing a body that'll wash up downstream in a day or two."

  They think I will not survive. They think the river will finish what they started. They think they have won.

  They are wrong.

  Forcing myself to move, crawling at first, then staggering to my feet. The forest is right there, dark and dense and waiting. Every step is agony, my muscles screaming with exhaustion, my lungs burning from the river water I swallowed. But I keep moving, because stopping means dying, and I have not come this far to die on the wrong side of the water.

  The trees close around me, their branches blocking out the moonlight, their roots catching at my feet. I stumble deeper into the darkness, putting distance between myself and the town, between myself and the guards, between myself and the life I briefly thought I might be able to build.

  I do not know how long I walk. Time loses meaning in the darkness of the forest, each step blending into the next, each breath a small victory against the cold and exhaustion. The trees press in around me, their branches scratching at my fur, their roots threatening to trip me with every step.

  Finally, when I cannot go any farther, I find a hollow beneath an ancient oak. The space is barely large enough for my small body, filled with dry leaves and the musty smell of earth. But it is sheltered from the wind, hidden from view, as safe as anywhere can be right now.

  I curl into the hollow, drawing my tail around my body for warmth, and let the exhaustion finally claim me.

  The last thing I see before darkness takes me is the wooden pendant around my neck, the crescent moon embracing a star, its carved surface faintly luminous in the forest darkness.

  Whatever that symbol means, whoever left it for me to find, they gave me something the guards could not take away.

  Hope.

  I close my eyes and let sleep pull me under, too exhausted to dream, too tired to worry about what tomorrow might bring. I am alive. I am free. And tomorrow, whatever tomorrow brings, I will face it.

  Because that is what survivors do.

  When consciousness returns, it comes slowly, like dawn breaking through heavy clouds. I am aware first of cold, the kind of deep cold that settles into bones and refuses to leave. Then discomfort, every muscle in my body aching from the abuse of the night before. Then, gradually, the sensations of my surroundings, the dry leaves beneath me, the rough bark pressing against my back, the distant sound of birdsong announcing the morning.

  I open my eyes and for a moment do not know where I am.

  The hollow beneath the oak tree. The forest. The escape.

  It all comes flooding back, the terror of the flight across the rooftops, the cold shock of the river, the desperate crawl through the darkness. I sit up slowly, wincing at the protests from muscles I did not know I had.

  My clothes are still damp, caked with mud and river water. My fur is matted and dirty, tangled with leaves and bits of debris. The pack on my back is lighter now, most of its contents lost to the river. When I check, I find only the leather pouch of coins, tucked into an inner pocket and somehow still secure, and a small knife I had forgotten I was carrying.

  Everything else is gone. The food Marta packed for me. The map Lyra drew. The supplies that were supposed to help me survive until I found safety.

  But I am alive. That has to count for something.

  I crawl out of the hollow and stand, testing my legs. They hold, barely. My shoulder throbs where I hit the rock in the river, and when I probe the area with my fingers, I find a massive bruise spreading across the joint. Nothing broken, I think, but it will hurt for days.

  The forest around me is dense and ancient, trees towering overhead, their branches forming a canopy that blocks most of the morning light. I have no idea where I am in relation to Millhaven, no idea which direction leads to safety or danger. The sun is barely visible through the leaves, giving me only the vaguest sense of direction.

  East. Lyra said that Merchant Tallen's caravan camps to the east of town, along the main road. If I can find that road, if I can find Tallen, I might have a chance.

  But I am also wet, injured, and exhausted. Moving through the forest in this state, I am as likely to stumble into danger as I am to find help.

  I need to think. I need to be smart about this.

  First things first. I need to get dry, or at least drier. The morning air is cold, and if I stay in these wet clothes, I risk becoming too chilled to function. I strip off the tunic and breeches, wringing out as much water as I can, then spread them over a low branch where the morning sun might reach them. The air against my bare skin is frigid, making me shiver violently, but it is better than the clammy embrace of wet cloth.

  As I wring water from my tunic, I notice marks on my body I have not examined closely before. A thin scar on my inner forearm, precise and straight, the kind of cut made with a very sharp blade by a very steady hand. Another on my side, just below the ribs, a small circle of slightly discolored fur where something was inserted or removed.

  These are not battle scars. Not accidents. They are too neat, too deliberate.

  I trace the line on my arm, and something cold settles in my stomach. These marks were made by someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Someone methodical. Someone who cut into me for a reason.

  The thought should terrify me. Instead, it feels distant, clinical—as if my mind has already learned to wall off this particular horror.

  I pull my tunic back on when it is dry enough and try not to think about what the scars might mean.

  While my clothes dry, I take stock of my situation. I have coins, enough for documentation if I can find the forger Lyra mentioned, or for food and shelter if I can find somewhere willing to serve a nekojin. I have a knife, small but sharp. I have this body, with its enhanced senses and reflexes.

  And I have nothing else. No food, no water, no map, no idea where I am going.

  The odds are not good. But they are better than they were last night, when guards were shooting crossbow bolts at my head. That has to count for something.

  I close my eyes and let my other senses take over. My ears swivel, catching the sounds of the forest. Bird calls, rustling leaves, the distant trickle of water. That last sound catches my attention. Water means a stream, and a stream might lead somewhere, might give me a direction to follow.

  My nose picks up scents as well. The rich smell of earth and growing things, the musty odor of decaying leaves, the faint trace of smoke from somewhere far away. Smoke means people, means civilization, means the possibility of help or danger.

  I file away the information and wait for my clothes to dry. The sun climbs higher, filtering through the canopy in golden shafts, and slowly the cold begins to recede from my bones. My fur dries in patches, becoming fluffy and warm, and I find myself almost grateful for it. Without this covering, I might have frozen in the night.

  When my clothes are dry enough to wear, I dress quickly and gather my meager possessions. The knife goes on my belt, the coin pouch into my inner pocket. The pendant stays around my neck, its carved surface a familiar comfort against my chest.

  I pick a direction based on the smoke smell and the sound of water, hoping they lead to the same place, and I start walking.

  The forest is not kind to travelers. Roots catch at my feet, branches scratch at my face, and the undergrowth seems determined to block every path. Thorns snag my clothes and fur, leaving tiny scratches that sting with each movement. Fallen logs force me to climb over or crawl under, each obstacle draining a little more of my dwindling energy.

  But this body handles the terrain better than a human's would. My digitigrade legs absorb the uneven ground with ease, my enhanced balance keeps me upright when I stumble, and my claws find purchase on slippery surfaces that would send a human sprawling. When I need to cross a gap between rocks or leap over a fallen tree, this form responds with a grace that still surprises me.

  I move as quietly as I can, alert for any sign of danger. My ears swivel constantly, tracking sounds from every direction. The crack of a twig might be a small animal or it might be a hunter. The rustle of leaves might be wind or it might be someone following my trail. My nose tests the air, searching for any scent that might indicate a threat. The forest smells of earth and growing things, of decay and renewal, of water and stone and countless living creatures going about their business unaware of my presence.

  The instincts that guide this body are becoming more natural, more integrated with my conscious thought, and I trust them in ways I would not have imagined a few days ago. When my ears perk forward, I pause and listen. When my tail twitches, I check my surroundings more carefully. When the fur on my neck rises, I move more slowly, more cautiously.

  This body knows things my mind has not learned yet. And right now, that knowledge is keeping me alive.

  The stream appears about an hour into my walk, a small brook bubbling over rocks and fallen logs. The water is clear and cold, and I drink deeply, suddenly aware of how thirsty I have become. The liquid soothes my raw throat, washes some of the river taste from my mouth, and gives me the strength to continue.

  I follow the stream, reasoning that it will eventually lead somewhere. Settlements are often built near water sources. Roads often follow waterways. If nothing else, it gives me a direction to walk instead of wandering aimlessly through the trees.

  The sun climbs higher, then begins its descent toward afternoon. My stomach growls with increasing urgency, reminding me that I have not eaten since yesterday. The metabolism that powers this body demands constant fuel, and I am running on empty.

  I need to find food soon. Or I need to find help. Preferably both.

  The forest begins to thin as afternoon fades toward evening. Through the trees, I can see open sky, and beyond that, something that makes my heart leap with desperate hope.

  A road. Narrow and unpaved, but unmistakably a road, cutting through the landscape like a promise of civilization.

  I approach cautiously, staying in the tree line, watching and listening for any sign of danger. The road is empty in both directions, no guards, no travelers, no one who might recognize me as a fugitive from Millhaven.

  I step out onto the road and look east, toward where the sun is beginning its descent toward the horizon.

  The road is a simple thing, just packed earth between rows of trees, but it represents something more than mere transportation. Roads connect places. Roads mean commerce and communication and the possibility of meeting others. Roads mean civilization, with all its dangers and opportunities.

  Somewhere in that direction, Merchant Tallen's caravan might be camped. Somewhere in that direction, there might be someone willing to help a desperate nekojin with no papers and no prospects. Lyra's words echo in my mind. He is a decent man, as merchants go. If you can prove you are useful, he will likely help.

  I start walking east, following the road, following the hope that somewhere ahead there is a future waiting for me.

  My feet leave small prints in the dust, evidence of my passage that anyone following could track. But I do not try to hide my trail. The guards think I drowned in the river. Captain Aldric said as much, let the river have her. By the time they realize I survived, I need to be far away, lost in the larger world where a single nekojin might disappear among the countless travelers and traders who move between towns.

  The evening deepens around me, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. Birds settle into the trees for the night, their calls fading into the growing darkness. The air grows cooler, carrying the scent of wood smoke from some distant fire.

  I keep walking, because stopping means giving up, and I have not come this far to give up now. My legs ache with every step. My shoulder throbs where I hit the rock. My stomach growls with an urgency that is becoming harder to ignore.

  But I am alive. I am free. And tomorrow, whatever tomorrow brings, I will face it.

  Because that is what survivors do.

  The first stars appear overhead, pinpricks of light in the darkening sky. I do not know their names or their patterns, another piece of knowledge lost in the void where my memories used to be. But they are beautiful nonetheless, a reminder that the universe is vast and ancient and indifferent to the struggles of one small nekojin trying to find her place in it.

  The pendant around my neck catches the last light of sunset, the crescent moon and star seeming to glow for a moment before the darkness claims them. I touch it with my fingers, feeling the grooves of the carving.

  My thumb finds the small chip on the moon's lower curve without looking. My fingers know exactly where every wear mark sits, every familiar imperfection. I have held this pendant a thousand times. Ten thousand. My hands know it the way they know themselves.

  Merchant Tallen said he found it with me. But this pendant is not something I acquired three days ago. It is something I lost—or had taken—and somehow found again.

  Holding it now, I feel grief and relief tangled together so tightly I cannot separate them.

  I do not know who I was. But I know this pendant was with me. And that has to mean something.

  Maybe I will never know what happened to me. Maybe those memories are gone forever, as unreachable as the stars overhead. But I know who I am now.

  I am Asha. And I am going to survive.