Hide and Go Seek - Elara

Hide and Go Seek - Elara
I didn’t stop running until the saferoom door was far behind me and the air in my lungs burned sharp and cold.
The house felt wrong now—too tight, too loud, every wall echoing with what I’d seen and what I’d felt. The bond that had always been a steady hum between Austin and me was jagged, like a wire sparking in the dark. I needed distance. I needed clarity. And more than anything, I needed to move before doubt could catch up to me.
I slipped down the back corridor, bare feet silent against the worn wood, and pushed through the side door into the open air. The afternoon sun hung low, casting long shadows across the yard. A few warriors lounged near the fence line, helmets off, laughing over shared bread and dried meat.
“Have you seen Austin?” I asked, forcing my voice steady as I approached.
One of them nodded. “Just a few minutes ago. He shifted the second he hit the front steps. Took off running—fast.”
My stomach clenched.
Of course he had.
“Thanks,” I said, already turning away.
The moment I was out of sight, my pace quickened. If he was running, then instinct was driving him. If instinct was driving him, then anything tied to me—anything tied to us—was a beacon.
Including the dagger.
I ducked into the kitchen, heart hammering. Helen wasn’t there—thank the moon—and the room was quiet except for the low simmer of soup on the stove. I crossed to the pantry and grabbed the first heavy container my hands landed on: a thick tub of lard, sealed tight and slick with grease around the rim.
It wasn’t elegant.
But it would work.
I pushed out the back door and broke into a run, angling myself deliberately opposite the direction Austin had taken. Each step felt like a betrayal and a protection all at once. My scent would lead him if I wasn’t careful. The bond might lead him anyway. I had to muddy the trail—confuse it, bury it under something stronger.
As the packhouse disappeared behind the trees, my thoughts raced faster than my feet.
The book. Lima. Nathan.
The pattern was clear now, painfully so. Love. Power. Binding. Consumption.
I wouldn’t let that be us.
I slowed only when my legs began to tremble, when the sun dipped lower and the forest thickened around me. I ducked behind a stand of firs and twisted the lid off the tub with shaking hands. The smell hit me immediately—heavy, animal, unmistakable.
“Sorry,” I muttered to no one, then plunged my hands inside.
I smeared the lard over my arms, my neck, my hair, suppressing my own scent until it felt like my skin no longer belonged to me. Then I pulled the dagger free, its weight familiar and wrong in my palm, and coated it until the metal gleamed dull and slick.
The hum beneath my skin quieted.
Good.
I wrapped the dagger in a scrap of cloth torn from my shirt and pressed it into the greasy mass again, sealing it inside. If anyone tracked this, it would lead them nowhere useful. If Austin tracked it—my throat tightened—he’d lose the trail.
I started running again.
The forest grew denser as daylight thinned, branches clawing at my sleeves, roots threatening to send me sprawling. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I didn’t have the luxury of knowing where the borders was—without the ceremony, without the final binding to the land, I was blind to the lines that kept the pack safe.
Every step beyond them felt like trespassing into something old and watchful.
A rustle to my left froze me in place.
I dropped low, pressing my back to the trunk of a thick oak, breath shallow. My heart pounded so loud I was sure it would give me away.
Voices drifted through the trees.
“…told you, it’s your turn next.”
“Only if you admit you burned the stew last night.”
Soft laughter. Boots crunching leaves.
Patrol.
They passed not twenty yards from me, shapes moving between shadow and shadow. One of them sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose.
“Do you smell that?”
The other snorted. “Yeah. Bacon. You’re hopeless.”
Their laughter faded as they moved on, and only when the forest swallowed their sound did I let myself breathe again.
I waited longer than necessary, counting heartbeats, grounding myself in the feel of bark beneath my fingers and dirt under my nails. When I finally moved, I angled deeper into the dark, toward a place no one went unless they had to.
The land changed there—rockier, older. The trees twisted together, roots weaving over stone like knuckles gripping bone. I slowed, searching with more than my eyes. The book was tucked against my ribs, heavy with promise and warning. I didn’t open it. I didn’t need to.
I felt where the dagger needed to rest.
A hollow between two boulders caught my attention, nearly invisible unless you knew how to look. Moss thickened there, cool and damp. I knelt, hands slick with grease and earth, and dug until my fingers struck stone.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, not sure who I was apologizing to—the land, Austin, myself.
I placed the wrapped dagger deep into the hollow and packed the dirt back over it, tamping it down until the ground looked untouched. Then I scattered leaves and pressed my palm flat, willing the earth to remember nothing.
The hum was gone now.
Completely.
I sat back on my heels, exhaustion crashing into me all at once. The forest creaked and sighed around me as night settled in. Somewhere far away, a wolf howled—lonely, searching.
Austin.
Tears burned behind my eyes, but I forced them back. Crying here would help no one. Loving him meant protecting him, even from himself. Especially from whatever had found a way inside.
I stood, wiping my hands on my jeans, and turned toward the long walk home.
The packhouse might not be safe.
The bond might be wounded.
But I was still here.
Still moving.
Still fighting.
And until this darkness was gone for good, I would keep running—forward, not away.