The woods were a black mouth that swallowed them whole. Gunther moved by feel and memory, his Lawyer's mind constructing a crude map of the terrain from half-remembered childhood explorations. Every rustle in the undergrowth was an assassin's footfall, every snap of a twig a crossbow being leveled. He dragged Karl behind him, his brother's small hand a clammy, trembling weight in his own. Karl's initial excitement had been obliterated, replaced by ragged, hiccupping sobs he tried to stifle against the sleeve of his tunic.
"They're… they're gone, aren't they?" Karl whispered, his voice thick with tears. "Mother and Father."
Gunther didn't answer. A lie would be a flaw, a weakness in the foundation of their new reality. The truth was a weapon he wasn't ready to hand his five-year-old brother. Silence was the only structurally sound option. He focused on the immediate problems: distance, direction, and detection.
"We have to be quiet now, Karl," he said, his voice low and even. "Like the mice in the walls. No one can know we are here."
"But I'm scared," Karl whimpered, stumbling over an exposed root. Gunther caught him, his grip firm and impersonal.
"Fear is information. It tells you, that you are in danger. We already know we are in danger. Therefore, fear is redundant. Save your energy for moving."
The logic was impenetrable to a child, but the tone—cool, authoritative, and utterly in control, characteristic of the Sequence 9 Lawyer—had a calming effect. Karl's sobs subsided into a shaky silence, broken only by his labored breathing as he struggled to keep up.
After an hour of brutal progress, the sky began to lighten from pitch black to a deep, bruised grey. The shapes of trees emerged from the gloom, becoming individual sentinels instead of a solid wall of dark. Gunther found what he was looking for: a small, rocky outcrop partially concealed by a thicket of brambles. There was a shallow space beneath it, large enough for the two of them to huddle.
"In here," he directed, pushing aside the thorny branches. "We rest until full light."
They crawled into the cramped, damp space. The air smelled of wet earth and decay. Gunther shrugged off the heavy satchel and both rucksacks, his shoulders screaming in relief. He immediately began an inventory, his movements economical. Dried meat, hardtack, a waterskin, a tinderbox, a coil of thin rope, a skinning knife. And the oilskin pouch with the formulas. He checked it twice, ensuring it was sealed against the damp.
Karl curled into a ball, shivering violently. "I'm cold, Gunther."
Gunther assessed the variables. A fire was out of the question—the smoke and light would be a beacon. Their wet clothes were a problem that could lead to sickness, a critical failure state. He unpacked his own rucksack and pulled out the spare woolen blanket he'd taken. It was coarse and smelled of horse, but it was dry. He wrapped it tightly around Karl, then pulled his little brother against his side, sharing what little body heat he had.
"We will be moving again soon. You will warm up."
"Where are we going?" Karl's voice was small and muffled by the blanket.
"To the sea. To a man who will help us."
"And then will we go home?"
Gunther looked out at the growing light, his grey eyes flat. "No, Karl. Home is gone."
The finality in his voice killed the last of Karl's hope. He didn't cry. He just went very still, a small, warm weight against Gunther's side, and fell into an exhausted, fitful sleep.
Gunther did not sleep. He sat watch, his senses stretched to their limit. He analyzed every sound, categorizing them by threat level. A scuttling in the leaves: rodent, non-threat. The hoot of an owl: avian, non-threat. The distant, faint crunch of something moving with purpose through the forest: unclassified. Threat probability: moderate. He held his breath, his hand going to the hilt of the skinning knife. The sounds faded, moving away from them. He noted the direction and adjusted his mental map of the pursuit.
When the sun was fully up, casting a weak, watery light through the canopy, he shook Karl awake. "Time to go."
Karl was listless, his eyes dull. He moved like an automaton, chewing without enthusiasm on a piece of dried meat Gunther gave him. As they set out again, Gunther noticed the boy was limping.
"Your foot. What is wrong?"
"It hurts," Karl mumbled.
Gunther made him sit on a fallen log and pulled off his boot. The sock was stained with blood. A blister on his heel had burst and raw skin was rubbing against the rough leather. It was a minor injury, but in their circumstances, a critical vulnerability. It would slow them down, increase the pain variable, and lower morale.
"This is unacceptable," Gunther stated, his mind racing through solutions. He had no salve, no clean bandages. Then he remembered the potion formula. The Hunter. The description his father had read mentioned enhanced vitality, physical resilience. It was a solution, but a dangerous one. Administering an untested, powerful substance to a traumatized child was a significant risk. But the risk of not doing so—of being caught because they were too slow—was greater.
He made the calculation in seconds. The logical path was clear.
"Karl," he said, his voice taking on the tone he used when explaining a complex lesson. "We are playing a game now. A very serious game. To win, we must be strong. Stronger than we are now. Father left us a… a special medicine. It will make your foot stop hurting and help you walk faster. But it will feel strange for a moment. Do you understand?"
Karl looked at him with wide, trusting eyes. The trust was a flaw, Gunther noted, but one he could exploit for survival. "Will it taste bad?"
"I do not know. But it will be quick."
Gunther took out the waterskin and the oilskin pouch. He unrolled the Sequence 9 Hunter formula. The instructions were similar, but the ingredients list was more visceral.
Main ingredients: A tuft of fur from a predator, the eye of a king hawk.
Supplementary Ingredients: 80 milliliters of Red Wine. 1 Red Chestnut Flower. 5 grams of Poplar Tree Leaf Powder.10 grams of Basil. he didn't know what these things were, but they should be on the satchel his father gave him.
He rudimentarily prepared the potion on the waterskin, milling and placing the ingredients in a order that made sense to him.
When he was done, the liquid was a deep shade of red concoction.
"Drink it all. Quickly," Gunther ordered, holding the waterskin to Karl's lips.
Karl grimaced at the smell, but he obeyed. He gulped it down, his small throat working. For a moment, nothing happened. Then his eyes flew open, the pupils dilating wildly. A low growl rumbled in his small chest, a sound that was utterly alien. For a moment, fur started growing on his small body. He convulsed, his back arching, and he would have fallen from the log if Gunther hadn't held him.
"Fight it, Karl," Gunther commanded, his voice hard. "Remember who you are. You are Karl Vogler. You are my brother." Gunther said with an authoritative tone.
Karl's body went rigid, his fingers clawing at the bark of the log. He was gasping, his breath coming in sharp, pained pants. Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. He slumped against Gunther, panting, sweat beading on his forehead.
"My… my foot... it still hurts, but i think i can move now..." he whispered, amazement cutting through the fatigue.
Gunther examined it. The raw, broken skin was still there, but the inflammation was gone. Karl's eyes, when he looked up, were different. Still a child's eyes, but there was a new sharpness in them, a predatory awareness. He was noticing the way the leaves moved in the wind, tracking a squirrel high in a tree with an unnerving focus.
"Good," Gunther said, a cold satisfaction settling in his gut. The experiment was a success. The risk had paid off. "Now, we move. And we move fast."
The difference was immediate. Karl kept pace effortlessly, his small legs pumping, his breathing even. He no longer complained. He simply followed, his enhanced senses now taking in the forest around them with a silent, watchful intensity.
They traveled all day, stopping only for brief rests. Gunther used the sun and the moss on the trees to maintain a generally eastern course. He avoided game trails, sticking to the thicker brush where their passage would be harder to track. He was constantly calculating, his mind a machine assessing angles of approach, cover, and escape routes.
As dusk began to settle, turning the world blue and purple, they reached the edge of the woods. Before them lay a steep, rocky slope leading down to a narrow, shingle beach. A small, weathered dinghy was pulled up on the stones, and a man with a hunched posture was mending a net outside a tiny shack.
"Halvar," Gunther murmured. The endpoint of this phase of the journey.
He observed the scene from the tree line for a full fifteen minutes, analyzing it for flaws. The man seemed alone. There was no other boat, no sign of an ambush. The probability of trust was still low, but it was the only option on the board.
"Stay here. Do not make a sound. If I call for you, come. If you hear fighting, run back into the woods and hide," Gunther instructed Karl. The boy nodded, his new Hunter's instincts understanding the command to lie in wait.
Gunther left the satchel and rucksacks with Karl and walked out of the trees, his hands held slightly away from his body to show he was armed only with a skinning knife. The crunch of his boots on the rocky slope announced his presence.
Halvar looked up. He was an old man, his face a roadmap of wrinkles and sun damage, his eyes the color of the sea on a cloudy day. They held no surprise, only a deep, weary resignation.
"You're the Vogler boy," he said, his voice a gravelly rasp. He didn't ask a question.
"My father, Talos Vogler, said you owed him a debt," Gunther stated, stopping a dozen paces away. He was analyzing the man's posture, the set of his shoulders, the look in his eyes. He saw no immediate deception, only a profound reluctance.
"Aye. A life debt. Stupidest thing I ever did, getting caught in that storm." Halvar spat onto the stones. "You're alone?"
"We are not alone," Gunther said, his voice cold. "I am with my brother."
Halvar's eyes flickered towards the tree line, then back to Gunther. He sighed, a sound of immense weariness. "Indaw Harbor, then. It's a pit. But it's a big pit. Easy to get lost in." He gestured to the dinghy. "Tide turns in an hour. We leave then. It's a two-day sail, if the weather holds. You have coin?"
"Some."
"Good. The debt covers passage. Not food. Not silence." The old man's gaze was sharp now. "There's been talk in the villages. Men with hard eyes asking about a noble family. Offering gold for information. Your father… he knew the price of this."
Gunther met his gaze, and in that moment, he was no longer a boy. He was the head of the House of Vogler, negotiating the terms of his family's exile. "My father paid the price. Our business is our own. You will get us to Indaw Harbor. You will speak of this to no one. In return, you will have your debt cleared, and we will have no further business. Do we have terms?"
The old sailor looked at the fifteen-year-old standing before him, his back straight, his eyes harboring a cold fire that belied his age. He saw the ghost of Talos Vogler's stubborn pride, sharpened into something far more dangerous.
"Aye," Halvar grunted, a flicker of respect in his weary eyes. "We have terms. Get your brother. The sea waits for no one, not even for boys running from ghosts."
Gunther turned and whistled, a short, sharp sound. A moment later, Karl emerged from the trees, his small form moving with a new, feral grace. He came to stand beside Gunther, his eyes fixed on the old sailor, assessing him as a potential threat.
Halvar looked from one brother to the other. He saw the sharp, calculating intelligence in the elder and the silent, watchful predator in the younger. He shook his head slowly.
"Gods help Indaw Harbor," he muttered under his breath, and turned to ready the boat.