The false trail took time and care to build, every step a quiet act of defiance against the men who would soon come hunting them.
Anna had picked the spot with her usual sharp eye—a wide patch of soft, loamy dirt where the scrub opened up just enough to make footprints stand out clear and sharp.
The ground here split naturally into three paths, each one tempting in its own way.
One dropped down into a narrow ravine with high rock walls and no easy exit, the kind of place that would trap anyone foolish enough to follow deep.
Another climbed steeply into a thick tangle of thorn bushes that would rip clothes and cut skin to ribbons.
The third curved gently toward a shallow stream with fast-moving water that would swallow scents and wash away prints in minutes.
They worked in near silence, movements smooth from years of doing this together.
Anna knelt first, pressing her boot deep into the dirt. She twisted her heel a little to make the print look rushed, like someone running in panic.
She added a few more steps, spacing them unevenly—some deep, some shallow—as if the runner was tired and stumbling.
Then she snapped a low branch, letting it hang broken at an angle that looked natural, and scattered a handful of crushed leaves nearby so the fresh, green smell would linger in the air for any tracking dogs.
David mirrored her on the other forks. He dragged his heel to leave long skid marks in the dirt, snapped twigs at knee height so they dangled like someone had crashed through in a hurry, and even tore a small strip from the edge of his sleeve, hooking it on a thorn so it fluttered like a forgotten clue.
He wiped a bit of sweat from his brow onto a leaf, leaving the salty human scent behind. The air grew thick with the smell of disturbed earth, broken plants, and their own sweat as the sun climbed higher and the morning turned hot and sticky.
Every small thing counted. They made some prints deeper to show the weight of packs on running backs.
In one spot, they added a clear stumble—boot heel dug sideways, dirt kicked up in a spray. They scattered a few more leaves, rubbed pack straps against bushes to leave fabric fibers.
The work made sweat run down their faces and backs, packs feeling heavier with every bend and crouch, straps cutting into shoulders.
But they kept going, patient and careful, until the fake paths looked real enough to fool even a good tracker in a hurry.
When it was done, they backtracked with even more care. They stepped only on hard ground or flat rocks where no mark would stay. They used bundles of dry grass to sweep away their true prints, the grass whispering softly against the dirt as they moved.
No sound. No sign left behind.
They climbed a low ridge and settled behind a cluster of sun-warmed boulders, crouching low to watch their handiwork below.
The stones were rough against David's palms, warm from the morning sun.
The wind shifted, bringing the cool, metallic promise of rain and the richer, loamy scent of damp soil from the stream. Birds had fallen quiet nearby—everything felt still, waiting.
They waited.
No pursuit yet. But David knew it was coming.
Anna sat beside him, spear planted in the dirt like an anchor.
Her face was calm, but he could see the focus in her eyes, the way she scanned the horizon without seeming to move.
David shifted, a sharp stone poking his knee through his pants. The words had been building inside him since they left the fake trails.
"Mom," he said low, voice barely above the wind, "they know our strength. Roughly, at least. William saw me fight. He knows you're close to Foundation.
With that, they should've figured we'd head straight for Beast Core Valley—it's the best hunting ground we can reach fast, with the richest cores.
So why all this? Fake paths, hiding... they're just going to guess the valley anyway."
Anna didn't answer right away. She picked up a small pebble from the ground, rolling it between her fingers, feeling its rough edges. The sun warmed it slowly in her palm. She thought for a moment, eyes still on the paths below.
"If we ambushed them," she said finally, voice steady but with a cold edge, "and got lucky—killed them all clean, no survivors left—it would still make trouble. Bodies will found with wounds too neat for beasts? Or men just gone while known to be after us? Questions would come. Suspicion would grow. William could twist it, say we started it. Higher-ups in the base would notice. Guards missing for too long gets looked into. That situation would be bad for us. Clawes be in our neck from every direction."
She tossed the pebble away. It bounced down the slope with soft thuds and vanished into the brush.
"It's better to hide. Disappear for a few days. Let them chase ghosts and run in circles, waste time and energy looking in wrong places. William can't hide his men gone forever. The higher-ups will ask questions when guards don't report. Patrol schedules, duties—it all gets noticed. They'll have to return back soon, will stop the hunt to avoid real trouble."
David rubbed his knee where the stone had poked. Her words made sense. Smart. Patient.
"Yes, but Mom... staying in one place out here is risky.
Beasts follow patterns and mark their territory with strong smells. Finding a truly safe spot—hidden, easy to defend, with water and no paths leading in—is hard. Caves echo sounds. Streams carry noise far. High ground catches wind and shows movement. And if those dogs pick up our scent anyway? They'll circle back, become a constant headache. In the end, we'll have to fight them."
Anna turned to him then, her eyes meeting his with that familiar mix—hard steel for the world, soft warmth just for him.
She didn't answer his worry right away. Instead, she took a deep breath, letting it out slow, the way she did when calming herself before a tough hunt.
"Why are you so stressed, David?" she asked quietly, voice gentle now. "If we have to confront them, we will. Till our last breath if needed."
David looked at her, the guilt and frustration twisting tighter.
He remembered the words people sometimes said back in the base—those lucky ones with easy lives, born with coins or connections. "Life is to enjoy," they'd say, smiling over full plates. "Live happily with family, no worries." Pretty words. Easy to say when you had a golden spoon from birth or lived blind to the real world because you were too weak to face it.
But for people like him and Mom? Mortals scraping by in the dust? Life was risk. Every day. Every hunt.
"You and I," he said, voice low, "we always risk our lives. For food. For coins. For tomorrow. So yeah... if they find us, we kill them. Take their spoils. Weapons, coins, whatever they carry."
Anna's cold mask cracked just a little—a small, proud smile touching her lips.
"That's my boy."
They rose together, moving deeper into the wilds.
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