Milt broke into motion the instant the armored figures crested the ridge. He didn't wait to count them. The sound of metal was enough. Armor meant authority, and authority meant the huts would point outward to save themselves.
Shouts followed him, sharp and urgent, carrying across the scrub. Someone called for the road. Another voice answered with a command he didn't recognize.
Milt angled downhill, using broken ground to hide his path. Rocks cut into his feet, but pain was better than being boxed in. He could feel eyes on his back even when he couldn't hear footsteps yet.
The margins he'd chosen were already closing.
If he slowed now, he'd be surrounded before he understood how.
The land ahead sloped into a shallow basin dotted with thorny bushes and half-dead trees. Poor cover. Milt pushed toward it anyway, zigzagging to break line of sight. The pressure under his skin stirred, weak but present, responding to danger like a reflex he hadn't earned yet.
He resisted it.
Using it now would empty him again, and empty meant helpless.
A horn sounded behind him, shorter than the hunting calls he'd heard before. Answered by another, farther off. They were spreading.
Milt cut left sharply, doubling back toward a cluster of boulders jutting from the earth like broken teeth. He climbed instead of running, claws scraping stone, body protesting with every pull. Height meant visibility, but it also meant choices.
From the top, he risked a glance back.
Four armored figures moved across the basin, spaced apart, weapons ready. Not hunters. Soldiers. They advanced steadily, not chasing, trusting their net.
Behind them, at the ridge, the huts were already emptying. People scattered away from the soldiers' path, careful not to draw attention.
No one looked at Milt.
That hurt more than the fear.
He slid down the far side of the rocks and sprinted toward a line of scrub bordering the road. If he reached it, he could follow traffic patterns, confuse pursuit, maybe slip past.
A shout cut him off. One of the soldiers had climbed the rocks too.
Milt swerved, heart hammering, and vaulted a low ravine. He landed hard, rolled, and came up running, lungs burning. The pressure surged despite his efforts, flooding his legs, smoothing his stride.
Too much. Too fast.
He used it anyway.
The world narrowed to distance and timing. He ducked between bushes, tore through thorns without slowing, and burst out near the road. Wheel ruts and footprints crisscrossed the dirt. Fresh.
Milt didn't hesitate. He followed the road only long enough to be seen, then veered sharply into a side path worn thin by repeated use. Someone had been coming and going here often.
Voices rose behind him. Orders. The clatter of armor as soldiers adjusted course.
Milt pushed harder, ignoring the pain blooming behind his eyes. The path led to a shallow quarry, abandoned and half-flooded. Broken stone blocks lay scattered, offering cover and confusion.
He dove between them as arrows thudded into dirt where he'd been seconds before.
So they had ranged weapons too.
Milt crawled through water and mud, holding his breath, letting filth coat him again. He stayed submerged until his chest screamed, then emerged behind a collapsed wall.
Boots splashed nearby. Someone cursed.
Milt waited until the voices drifted apart, then slipped out the far side of the quarry, leaving only churned water behind.
He didn't stop running until his legs failed.
Milt collapsed beneath a twisted tree, retching violently. The pressure vanished all at once, tearing through him like something being ripped out. His vision blurred. He tasted blood.
His body shook uncontrollably, muscles locking and releasing without rhythm. He pressed his forehead into the dirt and breathed shallowly, counting each breath like a lifeline.
Too far. Too fast. Too reckless.
When he finally forced himself upright, one leg buckled. He caught himself on the tree, panting. His head pounded in time with his heartbeat, each pulse a warning.
The forest around him was silent in the wrong way. No birds. No insects. The soldiers hadn't found him yet, but they were near enough to quiet everything else.
He wiped his face with shaking hands and left a smear of red on his fur. The pressure didn't respond at all now. Whatever it was, it had limits, and he had reached them.
Milt understood something critical then.
Escaping once didn't mean freedom.
It meant escalation.
The people hunting him now weren't curious.
They were correcting a problem.
As evening crept closer, Milt forced himself onward, deeper into terrain no one bothered to clear. Fallen trees piled over one another. Brambles tore at his legs. Every step hurt, but every step also took him farther from order.
He found a narrow cleft between rock and earth and wedged himself inside. From there, he could see the sky darken without being seen himself.
He listened until his ears rang with the effort.
Distant horns sounded again, but they were fewer now, farther apart. Searching, not closing.
Milt closed his eyes, exhausted beyond thought.
He wasn't safe.
But he wasn't caught.
And that had to be enough.
A stone shifted at the mouth of the cleft.
Milt's eyes snapped open as a shadow blocked the last light.