Dawn was coming, but the forest still belonged to night.
Mist clung low to the ground and filled the gaps between the ancient pines. Vane moved fast—too fast for someone who should have been limping—but every few steps his left metal leg dragged, the joint grinding against wet earth.
He kept Orion tight to his chest.
The baby didn't cry.
That was the first thing that bothered him. A newborn should scream in the cold, in danger, with strangers' scents all around him. But Orion was silent—unnaturally silent—breathing like he was asleep in a warm bed.
And the smell…
Vane hated that he noticed it. Vampire sweetness mixed with wolf musk. Wrong. Like two different worlds forced into one body.
His jaw clenched until it hurt.
Commander Gareth… what did you do?
A few hours ago, Gareth had been the strongest man Vane knew. Not just in muscle—Gareth had always been the kind of leader who made you believe you could survive anything as long as you followed him.
Then Gareth had dropped to his knees in the dark and handed Vane a baby.
"Protect him. Raise him. This child is innocent."
Vane still felt the weight of those words more than the weight of the child.
In werewolf territory, "innocent" didn't matter. Bloodline mattered. Loyalty mattered. Orders mattered.
And Gareth had just shattered every rule.
Vane's stomach twisted with disgust—at vampires, at hybrids, at the idea that Gareth had ever touched that world willingly.
He betrayed us.
That thought came sharp and automatic.
But another thought followed just as quickly, heavy and stubborn:
He saved my life.
Vane's fingers tightened around Orion's blanket.
He remembered the Nullspawn. Remembered the stink of that thing—like rotting metal and burned flesh. Remembered losing his leg, the pain so intense it turned the world white. Remembered Gareth dragging him out while others ran.
Vane owed Gareth everything.
That debt was the only reason Orion was still alive in his arms.
A howl rolled through the forest.
Vane stopped instantly.
Not because he was scared. Because he was trained.
He listened.
One howl. Then another. Then many—layered, coordinated.
A formation.
Not a lone patrol. Not scattered scouts. This was organized pressure moving through the trees.
They weren't hunting a missing man—Gareth was already chained.
They were hunting the things a chained man couldn't hide: witnesses, routes, evidence, the shape of a deal that should never have existed.
And Vane had been near the border.
That was enough.
Vane exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled.
He didn't pick his route because it was safer. Nothing was safe.
He picked it because he knew what was ahead.
A narrow creek cut through the valley, and beyond it the ground tightened into a rocky gully—high banks, limited entry points, only a few places where a full unit could cross without breaking formation. If they tried to spread wide, the terrain would force them back into a line. If they rushed, they'd pile into each other.
And for Vane—metal leg and all—stone was better than roots and mud. Stone didn't grab the prosthetic. Stone didn't twist the joint.
It wasn't a miracle path.
It was a place that made the hunters choose between speed and control.
Vane needed them to choose control.
He shifted east, keeping his steps measured. Not too quiet—quiet made you tense and clumsy. Not too loud—loud made you easy. He ran like a soldier who understood his own limits and the enemy's habits.
His metal foot hit a rock and slipped.
He caught himself, but the jolt sent a spike through his body. His breath stuttered. He swallowed the sound and kept moving.
Orion stayed silent.
Vane glanced down without meaning to.
The blanket was wrapped tight. Still, for a moment, he felt—more than saw—two small eyes turned toward him.
Not fear.
Not confusion.
Just… watching.
Vane's skin prickled.
No baby looks at someone like that.
He forced himself to stop thinking about it.
Focus. Route. Distance. Timing.
The howls shifted.
Closer.
Sharper.
He could hear commands now—low voices cutting through the mist, short and controlled.
"Left flank—hold spacing."
"Don't break formation."
"Any movement—report."
A voice rose above the others, amplified by authority.
"BY ORDER OF THE GRAND COMMANDERS! ALL WITNESSES OF THE BORDER INCIDENT ARE TO BE DETAINED!"
Vane's jaw tightened.
So that was the word they used.
Detained.
Not arrested. Not punished. Just contained until the story matched what the Council wanted it to match.
Vane didn't respond.
Talking wastes breath.
Breath is rhythm.
Rhythm is speed.
And speed was the only thing keeping the bundle in his arms from becoming a sentence.
He moved.
Not in a straight line. Not in panic. He let the mist hide him for half a heartbeat, then changed his angle. He used the pines to break sight, the uneven ground to break pursuit timing. He ran like someone who didn't need the forest to save him—only needed it to delay them.
Behind him, the formation adjusted.
Voices tightened.
Footsteps multiplied.
Then, as the creek's cold air brushed his face, Vane accelerated—just enough to hit the water before they could clamp the bank. Water splashed low. The far side was slick; his knee dipped once, but he caught it without falling.
Orion didn't stir.
Vane didn't look back.
He drove forward into thicker mist, toward stone, toward the gully that would narrow their numbers into something manageable.
The howls behind him rose again—closer, angrier, determined.
But they were still behind.
And that was all he needed.
Far beneath the forest, dawn did not exist.
In a sunless pit of stone and iron, Gareth hung from chains that creaked softly whenever his body refused to stay still. His wrists were raw. His shoulders trembled. Blood had dried, been torn open, and dried again across his chest, layer after layer.
A Grand Commander stood in front of him. The air around him stank of authority and cruelty.
"Where is the vampire?" the man asked. "The Noble who crossed our border. The blood barrier. The deal. Tell me what you traded."
Gareth's head hung low.
For a long time, he didn't answer.
Another strike came. Pain flashed white, then dark.
Slowly, Gareth lifted his face.
His lips were split. His teeth were red.
He smiled anyway.
Not because it didn't hurt.
Because somewhere above—somewhere in mist and pine and running breath—time was still moving the way he needed it to.
"You won't find her through me," Gareth whispered.
The Grand Commander's eyes narrowed. "What?"
Gareth's smile widened just slightly, blood leaking at the corners.
"You're already too late," he said.
The Grand Commander struck him again.
Gareth's head snapped aside. Blood dripped from his chin.
He laughed once—quiet, broken, real.
Because even chained in darkness, he could still imagine the hunt failing to close its teeth around what mattered.
And that was enough.