I stumble over a root—no, a Whisper Vine—and catch myself on a trunk, my palms scraping raw against the bark. The thorns don't care. They never do.

Behind me, the hunting party's footfalls echo through the dense foliage. They're not running. They're pacing. Enjoying this.

Two months. Two months of chains, of scraps, of watching other humans get dragged off into the dark and never come back. And now this.

A merciful death, they said.

My legs are jelly. My vision swims at the edges. I've been running for what feels like hours, the twin suns beating down through the canopy, the air thick and wet and suffocating.

I skid to a halt at a fork in the terrain.

Left—sheer cliff dropping into the Fire Deserts. I can feel the heat rolling off it from here, dry and hungry.

Right—SawTooth Ridge, a brutal climb up jagged rock where the Xito make their homes. If I'm lucky, they'll be friendly. If I'm not—

Straight ahead—a thicket of Whisper Vines, their rose-like flowers bobbing gently, innocently, in the breeze. Beautiful. Deadly.

The footsteps grow closer. A low, guttural bark echoes through the trees—one of the younger Blooded warriors, signaling my position.