5. Rhea

5

RHEA

T he forest is a labyrinth of shadows as I'm pushed forward, my hands bound, the trinket on my chest jingling with each step—a cruel reminder of the game I've been forced to play. I can hear the dark elves' laughter echoing in the distance as they prepare for the hunt. My heart hammers against my ribs as fear courses through my veins.

We are given a head start and I break into a run. The forest feels alive with the sounds of my own panic. Branches claw at my face, drawing stinging lines across my skin, and my breath comes in ragged gasps that tear at my throat. The ground beneath me is a treacherous dance of roots and rocks, waiting to trip me up, to bring me down. And it does—my foot catches on something unyielding. Pain lances through my ankle as I twist and fall.

The impact knocks the wind out of me, and I lay there, gasping for air, the taste of copper filling my mouth. My leg throbs in time with my heartbeat. I look down and see a deep gash on my shin weeping blood onto the forest floor. Panic grips me, cold and unyielding. I can't die here. Not like this.

As I lay there, I realize I have to break my hands free from the bindings if I'm to survive at all. I spot a fallen tree close by and slowly inch my way up next to it. The rough bark of the fallen tree scrapes against my bound wrists as I work the rope against it. My shoulders burn from the awkward angle, but I keep sawing. Back and forth. Back and forth.

"Come on," I whisper through gritted teeth. "Break, damn you."

The rope frays strand by strand. Sweat trickles down my neck despite the cool forest air. I've done this before, in secret practice behind the mansion's kitchens. The memory of those stolen moments gives me strength.

A branch snaps somewhere in the forest. I freeze, my heart thundering in my chest.

Nothing. Just the wind.

I return to my task with renewed urgency. The rope catches on a particularly sharp edge of bark, and I feel it giving way. My wrists are raw, bleeding, but I'm almost there.

"Just a little more..." I mutter.

The final strand parts with a snap that seems too loud in the quiet forest. I bring my hands in front of me, flexing my fingers to restore circulation. The rope falls to the ground.

"Get up, Rhea," I hiss to myself, my voice barely more than a whisper. "Move!"

I push against the ground, trying to rise, but the pain is a fierce fire that burns through my resolve. I collapse back onto the earth, the jingle of the trinket a mocking sound.

"Please," I beg the silent forest, the words torn from somewhere deep inside. "Help me."

The forest, my intended grave, hums with life around me, mocking my struggle to stand. My leg is a blaze of agony, and the metallic tang of blood fills my senses. I clutch the trinket around my neck. The cold metal is a stark contrast to the heat of my own fear. They're coming for me—the dark elves who find sport in the suffering of others.

But beneath the terror, a fire burns. I refuse to be their entertainment, to end my days as a hunted animal in these cursed woods. I have survived every cruelty they've thrown at me. I will not break now. I grit my teeth and attempt to rise again, my hands sinking into the damp earth. My leg protests. I bite back a scream, determined not to give them the satisfaction of hearing my anguish.

The sounds of the distant celebration are a discordant symphony, a backdrop to my own personal battle. But then, the laughter turns to yelling, the melodies of their instruments replaced by a cacophony of chaos. My heart skips a beat. What's happening?

I strain my ears, the usual buzz of the forest now overshadowed by the panic unfolding at the celebration. The dark elves' shouts carry through the trees. Something has disturbed their festivities, and the realization sends a thrill through me.

"What's going on?" I whisper to myself, the possibility of salvation sparking a flicker of hope within me.

I take a deep breath, the cool air filling my lungs, steadying my racing heart. With a final burst of determination, I push myself up, ignoring the pain that shoots through my leg. I lean against a tree for support, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

"You're not finished yet," I tell myself. It's a mantra, a promise. I will not die here.

I glance down at my injury, the blood seeping through my torn pants. It's worse than I thought, but I can't focus on that now. I tear a strip of fabric from the hem of my shirt and use it to fashion a makeshift bandage, wincing as I tighten it around my wound.

The sounds of panic and fear from the celebration grow louder, and I can't help but wonder what could be responsible for this shift. A rival family? A vengeful spirit? The forest is full of tales, whispers of ancient beings that lurk in the shadows. Perhaps one of them has taken offense to the dark elves' cruel games.

I allow myself a moment of dark amusement at the thought. It serves them right.

With the tree's support, I manage a few tentative steps, each one sending waves of pain radiating up my leg. But I push through, my survival instinct overriding the screaming protests of my body.

The forest is a maze of shadows and pain as I navigate slowly through the underbrush. My leg is a white-hot brand. Each movement I make is a fresh slice of agony. I grit my teeth. There's a coppery taste of blood in my mouth from where I've bitten my tongue to keep from crying out.

I can't afford to be discovered. Not now, not when the chaos from the celebration might just be my ticket to freedom. I imagine slipping into the crowd of dark elves, unnoticed amidst the panic, finding a fellow human slave to aid me. But the forest is vast, and my strength is waning.

My vision blurs. The world tilts dangerously and I fall to my knees. Refusing to give in, I start to crawl, my hands sinking into the damp earth. I pause, pressing my forehead against the cool bark of a tree, trying to steady my breath and my thoughts. Who—or what—could be causing panic at the heart of the dark elves' revelry? A part of me wants to believe it's a sign, a twist of fate that might finally lead me to freedom.

"Help," I whisper to the forest. "I need to get to the celebration."

The forest, ever silent, offers no reply. But the wind picks up, carrying with it the faintest hint of smoke and the unmistakable scent of fear. It's a smell I know all too well.

I gain a sliver of strength and pull myself back up to my feet. I push on forward using the tree trunks to steady myself. My injured leg leaves a trail of blood on the forest floor, a macabre map of my struggle for survival. I think of my mother's stories, tales of humans who once thrived beyond these oppressive woods, and I wonder if I'll ever see the world she spoke of with such longing.

The sounds of the celebration grow louder, a cacophony of shouts and screams that cuts through the quiet of the forest. I'm close now, close enough to hear the distinct cadence of dark elf commands being given and followed.

I collapse again, this time against a fallen log. My breath comes in shallow gasps, and my heart feels like it's trying to beat its way out of my chest. I'm so tired. The darkness at the edge of my vision creeps closer, threatening to pull me under.

"No," I murmur, shaking my head in a feeble attempt to clear it. "Not yet."

I press my hand against my wound, the cloth now soaked through with my blood. I need to keep moving. I need to find help. But my body betrays me, refusing to cooperate, the pain too much to overcome.

The ground seems to shift beneath me, and I realize with a jolt of fear that I'm no longer in control. My eyelids flutter closed, and despite my best efforts, I can't open them. The sounds of the celebration are a distant roar now, like the pounding of the surf against a shore I'll never reach.

"Please," I whisper, though I know not to whom I'm speaking. "Someone... help me."

And then, silence. My last thought is a vague hope that whoever—or whatever—is causing the uneasiness at the celebration might also be my salvation.