I raised my hands again, palms out, and froze.

  Two men stood at the edge of the trees. They looked different from the ones in the village, broader through the shoulders and tougher in the face. Dark paint was smeared across their cheeks and foreheads in rough lines. One held a spear low and ready. The other had a bow half drawn, arrow pointed straight at me like he was already tired of my existence.

  They called out in short, sharp phrases I did not understand.

  “Okay,” I said, keeping my voice as calm as I could. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave if you let me.”

  The bowman did not blink. His fingers stayed on the string.

  He spoke quietly to the spearman. The spearman answered just as quietly, eyes never leaving me. Then the bowman tilted his head and motioned me away from the treeline, out into the open.

  They wanted space. Clear sight. No cover.

  I moved the way you move when you know one mistake gets you killed. Slow, careful steps, no sudden turns. The bow never stopped tracking me.

  The spearman walked past me and slipped into the trees where I had come from, quick and silent. Checking for others. Checking if I was bait.

  I was alone.

  A few minutes later he came back and shook his head once. The bowman did not relax, but I could feel the shift in the air. I was not an ambush. I was just a problem.

  Then the bushes rustled on the other side of the clearing.

  The bow snapped toward the sound instantly.

  My body wanted to run. My brain reminded me that running would just give them a clean shot into my back.

  A clear whistle came from the brush. Three notes, controlled. A signal.

  Six young adults stepped out, all of them looking like they had been in a fight. Bruises, cuts, dirt ground into skin. Three of them had the same warpaint as the two holding me. The other three looked more exhausted than angry, but they still stayed alert.

  All of them flicked their eyes toward me.

  Curious first. Careful second.

  They spoke quickly among themselves. Most of it went toward one guy without paint, taller than the rest, carrying himself like he was used to being listened to. He nodded while watching me. Then something changed in his expression, like a detail clicked into place, and his eyes sharpened.

  It took me a second to pinpoint the expression. It became measured.

  That look made my skin crawl worse than the arrow.

  I cleared my throat. “Hey, guys?”

  I got ignored. The bow stayed steady. The leader kept staring like he was sorting me into a category.

  “I can cook,” I blurted. “If you need someone useful. Just don’t turn me into a porcupine.”

  Still nothing.

  The leader said something short and final, and the group split like it was routine. Two slipped back into the brush at a jog. Scouts, probably. Another stepped closer to me, pointed at his own eyes, then at me, then jerked his head.

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  Follow.

  So I followed.

  They moved fast through the trees, not a panicked sprint, more like controlled speed. I kept my head down and matched their pace as best I could, focusing on my feet and keeping my mouth shut. I had no idea what they wanted with me, and I did not want to give them a reason to change their minds.

  The way they spoke sounded different from the villagers. Different rhythm, different cadence. Maybe a dialect. Maybe a different language. Either way, I could not do anything with it right now.

  Hours blurred into one long stretch of cold and movement.

  By the time night fell, my legs felt hollow.

  They stopped in a shallow dip between rocks and made a small fire, quick and low. They left a spot near the heat for me, but not close. Like I might be contagious.

  Someone tossed me jerky and a skin of water.

  I drank too fast, then ate like I had not eaten in days. The fire heat soaked into my wet clothes, turning them from dripping misery into steaming discomfort. I almost thought I might get to sleep.

  After barely an hour they killed the fire, scattered the ash, and got everyone back on their feet, including me.

  Then we ran again.

  Days went like that.

  Run. Stop. Eat something tough and salty. Drink just enough. Run again.

  Pairs rotated in and out, slipping ahead, falling back, switching without a word. Scouts. Watchers. Too many eyes.

  I tried to find a pattern. I tried to count time. I tried to stay sharp.

  Then the fever hit.

  It started behind my eyes, then settled into my joints. My thoughts got slow. My balance got worse. I stumbled more. I started dragging them down.

  That was when I heard the first real argument.

  It was the leader and one of the others, one who did not have paint. The voices were low, but the tone was hard. They did not want me to understand, and they also did not care if I did.

  Even without the words, I understood enough.

  I was a liability now.

  They were running from someone, or something, and I was slowing them down.

  Leaving me behind would be easy.

  Killing me would be easier.

  I waited for the decision to land.

  Instead, after a long tense exchange, the leader made a sharp gesture and the pace eased, just a little. Not kindness. Not mercy.

  A choice.

  For whatever reason, they decided I was still worth keeping.

  Eventually the forest thinned. The ground rose. Trees gave way to rock and scrub, and the air changed, colder and thinner. The group’s posture shifted too. Less looking over shoulders. Less flinching at every sound.

  We pushed deeper into the mountains, and then I saw it.

  Up ahead, tucked into a wide bowl between ridges, sat what looked like a small tribe camp. Hide tents clustered in groups, smoke curling from a few low fires. Shapes moved between the tents, watching the approach.

  The leader raised a hand. The group slowed.

  When we reached the edge of the camp, they stopped me outside with two men. Both of them stayed close, close enough that I could feel their attention like pressure. The leader spoke briefly with them, then walked into the camp alone.

  I stood there, swaying on my feet, trying not to look as bad as I felt. The fever made everything swim at the edges. The cold went straight through me. Time passed in chunks. People glanced my way, then looked away. Nobody came close.

  After what felt like hours, the leader returned.

  He said something to the two men. One of them grabbed my arm and pulled me forward.

  They led me into the camp.

  We passed between hide tents and cooking fires. I caught the smell of smoke, leather, and something sharp and bitter. A few faces watched from the shadows. Nobody spoke to me.

  They stopped at one tent set a little apart from the others.

  Herbs hung from lines inside and around the entrance, bundles of dried leaves and stems, some tied with twine, some just draped like decorations. The smell hit me hard, pungent and green.

  The man guiding me pushed me inside.

  Warmth. Smoke. The heavy scent of crushed plants.

  My legs finally gave up. I barely had time to register the dark shape of a bedroll before the world tilted.

  Then I was gone.