Varang is hunting you.

You hear her before you see her; the measured crash of movement. She doesn't stalk like a panther or glide in metal birds like the Sky People. She advances relentlessly, a force that bends the land rather than listens to it. Like a lioness on the hunt.

The scent of smoke follows her, sharp and bitter, clashing violently with the clean, living air of the forest.

Your feet barely touch the ground as you leap, vaulting over roots, weaving between trunks older than the entire clan. The forest knows you. It opens for you. Vines loosen, branches dip, pathways reveal themselves in the half-second before you need them.

Still, she keeps up. A bullet slices past your shoulder and thuds into a tree ahead of you, a deep hole left in it's wale. “You run well for someone raised to hide,” her voice drawls behind you.

The ground drops away suddenly, a ravine splitting the forest like a wound, forcing you to stop. For a heartbeat, there is silence.

Then Varang lands opposite you with brutal precision. She is taller than you, her presence radiating heat and dominance like a banked fire. Her eyes gleam like embers, her lips curling in an unnerving grin, eyes unblinking.

“You belong to the trees,” Varang says, stepping closer, hips swaying. “But the forest will not always protect you.” She laughs, slow and dangerous. “Run again,” she croons. “I enjoy the chase.”