The woods swallowed Sabastin whole.
Thick branches clawed at his coat as he moved, each footstep careful but fast. The canopy above filtered sunlight into broken shards, and the birds had gone quiet—sensing danger in the air. Sabastin's breathing was steady, trained, his grip tight around the revolver his father had given him.
He wasn't just running. He was luring them.
Back in the cottage, he and Frederick had mapped this very route. A deep ravine just beyond the pines. A dry creekbed with sharp stones. A fallen tree hollow enough to hide inside. Sabastin had memorized every inch.
Behind him, the woods stirred.
Crack. A twig snapped.
He dropped low, cocking the revolver. Three shadows moved between the trees—Aleister's men. They thought they were hunters. But they had no idea what kind of beast they were chasing.
Sabastin waited, breath held.
Another step. Another.
Then—bang!
The first shot dropped the man in front before he saw the muzzle flash. Panic erupted. The others scattered behind trees, shouting.
"He's here! He's close!"
Sabastin darted right, weaving through the underbrush, heart pounding like a war drum. Bullets tore through bark behind him. He dove into a hollow log, rolling inside just as two more men passed feet away.
He held still. Listened.
"We should split," one of them whispered.
"No," came a deeper voice—familiar, cruel. Aleister had entered the forest himself.
Sabastin's lip curled. Good.
From his hiding spot, he pulled a spare bullet from his belt, reloading silently. He counted footsteps, waited for the rhythm of the hunt to break.
Then he struck.
Bursting from the log, he fired clean into the chest of a guard who hadn't even turned. The second man raised his weapon—but Sabastin tackled him into a tree, disarmed him, and smashed the pistol across his temple.
Two more down.
Leaves crunched behind him.
Sabastin ducked just in time as a blade whistled through the air above his head. He rolled backward, aiming as he moved. The attacker lunged again, but Sabastin fired, the bullet punching through the man's shoulder and spinning him to the ground.
Then silence.
Just the wind in the trees. The smell of blood and gunpowder.
Sabastin stood slowly, eyes searching the gloom. Only one man left.
Aleister.
"You're clever, boy," came the voice—echoing through the trees. "Just like your father."
Sabastin turned toward the voice. "You know nothing about my father."
"I know he died running. Just like you will."
Sabastin's jaw clenched. "Wrong."
He raised his revolver.
Aleister stepped out from behind a tree, hands up mockingly, pistol dangling at his side. "You've got heart, Sabastin. But this isn't your fight. Walk away. I'll forget what happened in Blackwood."
Sabastin scoffed. "You attacked my family. You declared this war."
Aleister's smile twisted. "Then let's finish it."
With lightning speed, both men fired. The shots cracked like thunder through the trees. Sabastin rolled left, the bark beside him exploding in splinters. He returned fire, forcing Aleister behind a trunk.
They circled, both calculating. This was no longer a chase. It was a duel.
Sabastin waited, heart pounding. One… two…
Aleister leaned out. Sabastin fired. The bullet clipped Aleister's arm, sending him stumbling with a curse.
"Next one won't miss," Sabastin growled.
Aleister gritted his teeth, backing away. "This isn't over."
"No," Sabastin agreed, lowering his weapon. "It's just begun."
Aleister vanished into the woods, blood trailing in his wake.
Sabastin didn't chase. He had done what he came to do—send a message.
And that message was loud and clear: Frederick's blood still runs, and vengeance is alive in the forest.
He turned back toward the hidden paths that would lead him home, breathing in the cold pine air. He didn't smile. He didn't celebrate.
He simply walked—and vanished into the trees once more.
The forest whispered behind him. The war had begun.
By the time Sabastin returned to the cottage, dusk was settling over the hills. The sky burned with streaks of orange and crimson, like the gods themselves had painted it in blood. His coat was torn, smeared with mud and gunpowder. A shallow graze marked his shoulder—nothing serious, but it stung like hell.
Carolina rushed to him the moment he stepped inside. "You're hurt!"
"I've had worse," Sabastin said, brushing past her gently. Petrova ran to fetch a rag and a bowl of warm water, while Frederick looked up from his chair by the fire,