Chapter Forty?Five — Blood in the Foothills

  The air in the ravine trembled with leftover gunpowder and fear. The spring bubbled behind them — fragile salvation. Cassian knelt and filled three canteens with quick, practiced movements while Jonah pressed his forehead briefly against Miles’s shoulder, steadying himself, steadying them both.

  Miles breathed raggedly, every breath scraping like sand against his ribs. Jonah cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the sweat and dirt there.

  “You scared the hell out of me,” Jonah whispered.

  Miles swallowed. “I — I’m sor—”

  “No,” Jonah cut him off, gentle but fierce. “Not now. We need to get this water back. Sammy’s waiting.”

  Cassian capped the last canteen. “We move. Quiet and fast.”

  The three of them scrambled up the rocky incline toward the trail. The foothills around them were painted gold and shadow, the sun beginning its slow descent. Wind threaded through the juniper branches, sharp with resin and tension.

  Halfway up, Miles felt it.

  A shift in the air. A wrongness. A silence deeper than quiet.

  “Stop,” he hissed.

  Cassian froze. Jonah did too.

  The wind stilled.

  Then—

  A pebble bounced down the slope above them.

  Just one.

  Just enough.

  Cassian’s eyes snapped upward. “They doubled back.”

  Jonah swore under his breath. “The riders.”

  Miles’s heart seized. “How many?”

  Cassian’s jaw tensed. “Enough to finish us.”

  Shapes appeared at the ridge — silhouettes cut against the dying sun. Not dozens. Not even the full seven.

  Three.

  But three night riders in narrow terrain were enough to kill a small army.

  Jonah lifted his rifle. “They’re blocking the path.”

  Cassian pulled Miles behind a boulder. “They want you alive. They won’t shoot first.”

  Miles flinched. “But they’ll shoot you.”

  Cassian smirked faintly. “Only if they can hit me.”

  Miles didn’t get time to argue.

  The first rider descended the slope with terrifying ease — horse hooves finding every foothold as if the mountain itself guided them.

  “MILES HAWKINS!” the rider shouted, voice booming across stone. “THE HARROWER WANTS WHAT’S HIS!”

  Miles felt ice crawl under his skin.

  Jonah’s jaw clenched. “Over my dead body.”

  Cassian nudged him. “That can be arranged — unless you listen to me.”

  Jonah glared. “What?”

  “We can’t outshoot them,” Cassian said. “But we can outrun them — if we move now.”

  Miles stared at him. “Down the ravine?”

  Cassian shook his head. “Up. To the knife ridge. They won’t risk their horses there.”

  Jonah blinked. “Are you insane? That ridge is a blade — narrow as a bootprint. One bad step—”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “And we fall,” Cassian finished. “Yes. But I’d rather take our chances with the rocks than with them.”

  Another rider joined the first — this one swinging a rope. A third followed, unslinging a rifle.

  They were forming a half-circle. Trying to funnel them. Trying to trap Miles between rock and death.

  “I’m giving you one chance, boy!” Scarred Face shouted. “Come quiet, and we don’t kill your friends.”

  Jonah snarled, “Like hell!”

  Miles’s heart pounded until his vision blurred. “We have to protect the water. Sammy— the others—”

  Cassian grabbed his chin gently, forcing Miles to meet his eyes. “Listen. You’re not dying here. Not today.”

  He shoved a canteen into Miles’s hands. “Jonah — keep him upright.”

  Jonah nodded, already pulling Miles close. “Always.”

  Cassian fired one quick shot up the slope — not at the riders, but at the loose shale above them.

  The hillside exploded in a cascade of rock.

  The riders cursed, horses rearing.

  Cassian barked, “RUN!”

  The Knife Ridge

  They sprinted.

  Up the incline. Over sharp stone. Jonah half-pulled Miles when he stumbled, never letting go. Cassian ran ahead, scanning the route with lightning-fast precision.

  Shouts rose behind them.

  “AFTER THEM!” “CUT THEM OFF!” “THE BOY — TAKE THE BOY!”

  Miles’s lungs burned. His ribs felt like broken glass. His legs shook with exhaustion.

  But Jonah was there.

  Every step. Every breath. Every heartbeat.

  “We’re almost there,” Jonah whispered.

  They reached the knife ridge — a narrow, terrifying strip of rock running along the top of the ravine.

  One side dropped thirty feet into boulders. The other side plunged into darkness.

  Miles’s fear spiked, vertigo sweeping through him.

  “I—I can’t— Jonah—”

  “Yes, you can,” Jonah said, gripping both of Miles’s hands. “Look at me.”

  Miles met his eyes — blue fire and stubborn hope.

  “We take it slow,” Jonah said. “Step where I step. Don’t look down.”

  Cassian stood at the ridge’s far end, scanning for pursuers. “MOVE!”

  A gunshot cracked behind them. Stone shattered inches from Miles’s boots.

  Jonah snarled, “Go!”

  Miles stepped onto the ridge—

  —and nearly fell.

  Jonah hauled him close, chest to chest, voice trembling. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

  Miles clung to him, breath shaking.

  Scarred Face yelled from below, “DON’T SHOOT THE BOY! SHOOT THE OTHERS!”

  Cassian shouted back, “Cowards!”

  Gunshots ripped through the air. Dust stung their faces.

  “GO!” Cassian roared.

  Jonah pulled Miles forward, step by trembling step, along the ridge’s spine. Behind them, riders scrambled up the slope — but their horses balked at the edge, whinnying in terror.

  Scarred Face cursed. “TAKE THE SHOT!”

  Another blast split the air.

  Jonah shoved Miles down just in time.

  Rock burst where Miles’s head had been.

  Miles gasped. “Jonah—!”

  “Pay attention!” Jonah shouted, pulling him up. “Not losing you now!”

  Miles nodded, heart in his throat.

  They scrambled the last few yards—

  —and Cassian grabbed Miles’s arm, yanking him onto stable ground.

  “DOWN!”

  The three of them dove behind a rocky outcrop.

  Bullets pinged off stone. Riders screamed in frustration. Scarred Face’s voice echoed:

  “RUN WHILE YOU CAN, BOY! THE HARROWER DOESN’T FORGET!”

  Jonah shouted back, “And neither do we!”

  Cassian grabbed both their shoulders. “Move! Before they regroup!”

  Miles looked back once — just once —

  and saw Scarred Face glaring at him across the ravine, eyes full of hatred and possession.

  Then the world blurred into motion again as they fled.

  The Escape

  They didn’t stop running until the ridge disappeared behind a rise and the cries of the riders faded into distant echoes.

  Miles crumpled to his knees, chest heaving. Jonah dropped beside him, pulling him into a fierce embrace.

  “You’re alive,” Jonah whispered, forehead against Miles’s. “You’re alive.”

  Cassian stood above them, catching his breath, rifle still ready.

  “We have water,” he said, voice steadying. “Sammy lives if we move fast.”

  Miles forced himself up, leaning heavily on Jonah.

  “Then— then let’s go,” Miles said, voice breaking. “Before they come again.”

  Jonah squeezed his hand.

  Cassian nodded.

  Together, they turned toward the dying wagon train — carrying the water of life and the knowledge that The Harrower’s men would not stop chasing them. Not now. Not ever.