Steven and the other soldiers whipped the reins of their horses, the steeds surging forward as the chase thundered across the plain. Wind tore past Steven's ears, carrying the shouts of his comrades.

"After them!" The commander of the squadron barked, his voice cutting through the pounding hooves. The squadron responded instantly, driving their mounts harder. They were closing in, gaining inch by inch. But the fugitive knew the land, too. With a sudden tug of the reins, the criminal swerved hard left, plunging into a dense forest. Branches snapped, shrubs scattered, and the figure wove desperately between the trees.

"Don't lose them!" The commander roared, his frustration echoing through the undergrowth. Yet already the soldiers were forced to pull back, their steeds rearing and stumbling as the tight-packed trees hemmed them in.

But Steven didn't falter. He knew this forest—every twisted root, every narrow path. He leaned low over his horse's neck, ducking branches, urging his white stallion forward with practiced ease. The criminal came into view again, and he urged his horse forward until he was riding side by side with the fugitive. Without hesitation, Steven shifted his weight and drove a sharp elbow into their side. The strike sent the criminal sprawling, crashing to the forest floor. Their own horse veered away in terror, nearly trampling its former rider.

Steven reined in sharply, leaping from his saddle before the dust had settled. His sword hissed free of its scabbard, and in one swift movement he levelled the blade mere inches away from the fallen figure's throat. "Stay down," He commanded, his voice low but cutting, the words leaving no room for defiance.