The wheel cracked again.
Rhea froze, chest heaving, mud on her lips. The sound was loud — too loud — like a bone breaking in the stillness of the cursed Dansel Forest. She crouched low, her fingers brushing the damp moss as her eyes scanned the shadows between the trees.
Nothing moved — not yet.
Above, the crooked arms of the Dansel Forest reached toward each other like dying hands, their bark blackened with old fire. The fog hung thick, pressing between the trees like smoke, curling at her ankles, rising from the dirt. No birds called. No wind stirred.
But they were behind her. She didn't need to hear them to know it.
They always followed, like bloodhounds drawn to the scent of failure.
"Come on," she whispered.
She gripped the side of the wooden stretcher — a crude thing she'd built from broken spear shafts and the ruined frame of a shield. Rope frayed against the handles, rubbing her blistered palms raw. She leaned in and pulled.
The unconscious man — Fray — didn't stir.
