Pain. Cold. The sensation of being dragged.

  The river is relentless.

  Elya’s body tumbles through the rushing current, tossed like a ragdoll. Water crashes over her, forcing its way into her lungs every time she gasps for air. Rocks scrape her arms, submerged branches snag her cloak, twisting her limbs in ways they shouldn’t.

  She tries to fight, but the river doesn’t care. It pulls her under, holds her in its grasp, crushing and endless.

  How long have I been in here?

  A minute? An hour?

  She can’t tell anymore. The world blurs, the gray sky smearing into streaks of green as exhaustion drags her under.

  And then—impact.

  The current hurls her against the riverbank, her body slamming into the mud and reeds. The world tilts as she crumples onto solid ground, limbs too heavy to move.

  The roar of the river still echoes in her ears, but it’s distant now. Her breath comes in ragged, shuddering gasps. Every inch of her aches.

  But I’m alive.

  She blinks, trying to clear the haze from her mind. The memory of torches and steel flashes behind her eyes—the shouting, the hunt, the knights that chased her through the forest.

  They could still be looking.

  She has to move.

  With great effort, she pushes herself up. Her soaked cloak drags behind her, waterlogged and heavy. Her legs tremble as she takes a single step—then another—before her strength finally gives out.

  The world tips sideways, and darkness rushes in to claim her.

  ---

  Footsteps.

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  Light and careful.

  Elya stirs. The ache in her body is dull now, but still there, a steady reminder that she survived. Sunlight presses against her closed eyelids, warm against her damp skin. The air smells of grass, not river water.

  She’s not where she was before.

  Her fingers twitch, brushing against dry earth. Someone moved her.

  Slowly, she forces her eyes open.

  A girl stands a few paces away.

  She’s young—maybe Elya’s age, maybe a little younger. Straight, ash-brown hair frames a face marked by piercing gray eyes, sharp and observant. A notebook rests in her hands, edges worn with use.

  And strangest of all—she isn’t afraid.

  Most people would have recoiled by now, fear or disgust flickering across their face. But this girl? She just watches Elya like she’s some puzzle waiting to be solved.

  “You’re awake.”

  Her voice is soft but steady.

  Elya blinks at her, mind sluggish.

  Who is she? And why is she looking at me like that?

  She tries to sit up, but pain flares in her ribs, sharp and unrelenting. She grits her teeth, barely suppressing a groan.

  The girl takes a step forward, tilting her head.

  “You look awful.”

  Elya exhales sharply.

  “Thanks.”

  To her surprise, the girl smirks.

  "Not many people wash up in this part of the river. Did you fall in?"

  Elya hesitates. She can’t tell her the truth—not when knights could still be searching for her.

  "Something like that."

  The girl hums, then crouches a few feet away, resting her notebook on her lap. Her gaze flicks over Elya’s soaked clothes, the strange patchwork cloak, the grimoire still clutched in her hands.

  "You’re not from around here."

  It isn’t a question. It’s a statement. An observation.

  Elya tenses.

  She’s sharp. Too sharp.

  Her breath comes slow and measured as she weighs her options. She doesn’t have the strength to run, and she doesn’t know how far the village is. If this girl realizes what she is—what I am—she could alert the town. And then—the knights would come.

  "I won’t tell anyone, you know."

  Elya’s heart pounds.

  “Tell them what?”

  The girl shrugs, eyes flicking to the grimoire in Elya’s hands.

  “That you’re different.”

  Silence.

  Elya watches her carefully, waiting for some flicker of deception, some hint that she’s lying.

  Most people would be uneasy by now. Most people would be backing away.

  But this girl—Selene, if she’s even telling the truth about her name—doesn’t move. She doesn’t flinch. She just waits.

  Elya tightens her grip on the grimoire.

  “…What’s your name?”

  The girl tilts her head slightly.

  “Selene Aldren.”

  The name means nothing to Elya. But there’s something about the way Selene carries herself that keeps her on edge. It’s not the boldness of a knight, nor the blunt suspicion of a common villager.

  It’s curiosity.

  "And you?"

  Elya considers lying. She should. But she’s too exhausted for it.

  “…Elya. Elya Raventhorn"

  Selene nods, as if committing the name to memory.

  Then, after a pause, she gestures toward Elya’s bruised arm.

  "You should let me help you. You won’t get far like this."

  Elya hesitates.

  She doesn’t trust easily.

  She shouldn’t trust easily.

  But Selene doesn’t look at her like the knights did. She doesn’t see a witch to be feared.

  She just sees a question she wants answered.

  And more importantly—Elya has no other choice.

  She gives a stiff nod.

  Selene’s expression softens slightly. Not with relief, or pity, but something quieter. A knowing kind of understanding.

  "Come on, then," she says. "My village isn’t far."

  Elya exhales, forcing herself to stand. Her legs are shaky, her ribs protest every breath, but she follows.

  Because right now, she doesn’t have a better option.

  And maybe, just maybe—this girl might not be an enemy.

  ---

  The two of them walk toward the village, disappearing into the tall grass.

  Neither of them notice the shadow lurking at the edge of the clearing.

  A lone knight stands among the trees, hidden in the dappled l

  ight. His grip tightens on the hilt of his sword, knuckles white.

  His eyes follow them—calculating. Silent.

  The hunt is not over.

  [End of Chapter 4]