“There were ships by that fire in the distance.”

  “And that’s where the Prison is.”

  “So do you want to follow the fire or follow the ships?”

  Smith pces the telescope back inside their satchel of supplies, “The fire.”

  Something tells them that if Evelyn had visible eyes, they would be rolling them. “So I guess you’re ignoring our pn to pass you off as a prisoner?”

  Smith thought that pn was stupid when they first heard it, and they find it just as stupid now. They’d prefer for Adamus to see them coming as opposed to sneaking around to stab him in the back.

  If this were up to them, they would have simply smashed the Bioship into the prison and hunted for Adamus amidst the wreckage.

  Though from the looks of things, they may be able to do just that.

  “The pn was just a suggestion,” Smith states as they tighten the bandana on their palm, “Vanessa only cares if Adamus dies. She doesn’t care how I do it.”

  “How we do it, you mean?” Evelyn hovers over Smith, keeping a tentacle on the ship’s skin.

  Smith shrugs, “I thought that you were just backup.”

  “Well, who’s to say that I don’t also have some tragic past guiding me on my violent mission?”

  Smith can’t tell if Evelyn’s joking. They also don’t care that much and want to get moving already. “Well, do you?” They bnkly ask.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Evelyn sighs, retracting their tentacle and fshing with faint light as they speak, “But Adamus may not even be in that prison anymore. We watched those ships fly over the horizon after the fire broke out, sure. But we also saw at least one of them fly away.”

  “You think that Adamus stole that ship?” Smith can’t help but consider the possibility. Based off what they saw in Rome, Adamus is more than capable of doing something like that. But why? Where would he be going?

  The prison is still the best lead, Smith tells themself, I didn’t come all this way just to let him slip from my hands now.

  When they left Tethaseele, it was under the guise of a prison transfer. Evelyn had pyed the part of a Martian Officer and assured Smith that this would be a simple task. They even boasted as much back during that meeting.

  Yet it seems like they are having doubts now, whereas Smith is as determined as ever.

  Even if Adamus is on that ship, I can’t risk it, they think. I can’t run around the universe forever. I need him dead now. I would watch the life leave his eyes right now if I could. Just like it left hers… For a second, Smith is back in Rome again, but then the second passes.

  They shake their head. “It’s more likely that the ship ran after reinforcements. If Adamus has escaped, there’s very little chance he left the pnet. He probably ran into the forest.”

  “Ah, yes, the forest full of dead, rotting trees that expose everything and everyone to the elements. You’d think that we would have seen him by now if that was the case.”

  Smith is growing tired of Evelyn’s insolence. “Look, I’m going after him with or without you. Feel free to do your own thing or follow that ship, just know that you’ll be doing it alone.”

  Evelyn’s spherical body seems to smile as they float back inside the ship, “Fine, I’ve always been my own best company anyway.”

  The Bioship takes off as Smith enters the dead and rotting forest full of dead and rotting trees.

  Night falls over the gray sky as the fire continues to burn in the distance.

  Qrows fly overhead as Smith stalks through the dry dirt and hot, bubbling mud. The birds squawk, calling out as they circle the fire and trees.

  She’s watching me, Smith tells themself, kneeling to listen to their surroundings as they pull out their telescope. They’re close to the prison now, but still can’t make anything out besides fming rubble.

  A Qrow nds on their shoulder and cries in their ear. Smith swats it aside. “I know Galihend. It’s on fire. I’ll be careful.”

  The bird reluctantly flutters off Smith’s shoulder and rejoins the circling flock above. The flock soon disperses, flying into the wind, granting Smith isotion in their hunt.

  They step over a fallen branch as wooden cracks amid the broken concrete architecture.

  Along with the burning wood, the smell of charred flesh hangs in the air. Smith’s nose begins to itch at the acrid fumes.

  They know this smell all too well.

  At the edge of the ruined prison, they crouch down to walk among the dead. Some of the corpses appear to have been ripped apart. Rended by a force more powerful and terrifying than anything natural. Smith knows what killed them.

  Adamus must have unleashed that creature again.

  They can only hope that he hasn’t gotten as far as Evelyn thinks.

  However, they soon find evidence proving that the Lungoza may be right.

  Two severed chunks of a symbiotic ship y on the ground. The pitch-bck skin writhes and curls in agony. The sentient debris begs to be relieved of its suffering.

  Smith walks past it, only noting the bodies of the sughtered Republic Soldiers.

  As they creep deeper into what was once the prison, their right foot stumbles over something. They trip. Their foot falls into a wide, gaping hole full of ash and cinder. Smith curses themself and rises, pulling their foot from the hole. Dusting themself off and gripping their satchel, they stare into the curious ditch. They stand straight and tall as they examine the charred bones inside it.

  A fatal mistake.

  The voices are low at first. Smith barely hears them until the sounds become more sporadic before going silent.

  They look off into the distance.

  An arrow speeds past them.

  Smith ducks into the ditch and pulls at their bandana. Blood smears on their palms in a curved motion as the voices grow closer.

  Smith summons a hunk of curved metal from their blood, but the bow cks a string.

  Cursing themself again, Smith leaps from the hole reeking of long-dead men and scrambles back onto the dry dirt, leaving the failure of a bow behind.

  Another arrow whizzes past their head as they rise.

  Smith rolls into cover. Ducking behind what they can only assume was once a wall, they reach into their satchel. They pull out a stone knife.

  The voices are bickering now, at least they might be. They are still too low to hear.

  Do they not know where I am? Smith wonders, gripping the knife tighter.

  A pair of eyes gazes at them from within the woods. Shouting follows.

  Rushing to their feet, Smith sprints further into the mound of rubble. More shouting comes with their every rapid step. Soon, arrows are flying over their head as fast as they can run.

  Leaping into a torn building, Smith tumbles to the floor, rolling across it until reaching a wall.

  Crouching against it for a moment, they hope to catch their breath. But the sound of rapidly approaching boots stalls that.

  Smith holds their breath, not daring to make a sound as the men approach.

  There are two other voices off in the distance. Panicked ones. Adamus?

  Boots move beside the wall Smith is cradled against. They clutch the knife tight as they can and remember what they were taught.

  The first man Smith sees gets the knife smmed into his gut. Before they can pull it out of him, the second man’s arrow speeds past them.

  Smith tosses the stabbed man into the archer. Stealing the bow from him as the pair falls, Smith smacks their scarred palm against the bow and pulls it to the string, summoning a steel arrow which smacks into the third man but does not pierce the flesh.

  Not enough force, Smith notes as they kick the man, only for him to counter. He pulls a knife of his own and lunges. On instinct, Smith holds out the bow to block the knife.

  They scold themself as the bde bites into the wood, idiot! I should have grappled.

  The man strides closer, forcing Smith back with his knife. The two other men are rising as well.

  Smith has been backed into a corner. Each way spells doom.

  Then an arrow sps the head of the man with the knife, drawing his attention away from Smith.

  They strike him with the bow and run toward the mystery archer.

  However, Smith soon comes to believe that the archer may have been aiming for them as yet another arrow is sent hurtling their way. As they dodge, their satchel slips off their shoulder. Adrenaline forces them to leave it behind.

  Smith reaches the forest and kneels among the trees.

  More arrows soon find them. Two in an uneven yet quick succession. Neither even come close to their target.

  Smith grasps their bow and stands. Wiping blood against the string, they summon an arrow. They draw the string back. Holding the steel fletching to the corner of their mouth, they take aim at their target. A young man about their height, yet with a fuller build, is a distant length away, but less than a single kiloclick. He’s trying to hide, but the reflection of light in his gsses gives him away.

  Smith prepares to fire. The sound of leather soles spping dirt interrupts them.

  Both archers fire at the Republic troopers. Both arrows fail to hit their targets.

  The stupid string lost all its tension when I fired on instinct! I should have kept my focus on the archer. Smith grits their teeth. They run deeper into the forest, hoping that the troopers are too wounded to match their pace.

  Their hopes come true. Smith doesn’t know how long they run for, but when they stop for breath, the Republic men are long behind them.

  Is that archer gone too? They wonder as their scarred palm twitches on the bowstring.

  Scanning the forest, Smith finds themself alone. Safe, for the moment.

  Still, their hands remain on their bow. They stalk through the dead trees, as silent as a whisper.

  They determine that they will circle back to the prison come daylight, whenever that may be. For now, it is far too dark to hunt, and they know far too little of the parties they faced tonight.

  Some time passes; how much, Smith does not know.

  The stars shine on the horizon as they climb a hill, bow in hand. The fire at the prison is still burning. Its orange radiance can be seen even from here.

  Another light can be seen as well. Another orange glow, down below.

  Smith summons an arrow and descends the hill.

  The campfire appears abandoned. A wooden spit dangles over it. A Qrow would be hanging from it had the spit not burned and colpsed due to the unkempt fmes.

  Smith squints at the roasting bird. Kneeling, they find an odd assortment of supplies.

  Various sticks and stones, Republic scarves, dirty bottles, and messes of string are all scattered about the encampment, but there is strangely not a tent in sight.

  Smith stands as they hear something hobbling behind them, struggling to walk.

  They draw their bow as they retreat into the trees.

  The mystery archer fires, but doesn’t see Smith dash around to kick him to the ground.

  The young man falls easily. One of his legs is clearly encumbered.

  Smith stands over him, still with their bow drawn. Pressing the iron fletching to their cheek, they finally get a good look at their target.

  He isn’t a fighter at all, much less an archer.

  The fire is reflected in the young man’s gsses, hiding his eyes. The rest of him is bare enough. The bck clothes he’s wearing have turned to rags, and his once well-fed body is beginning to show signs of malnourishment. His tall, bushy hair has also begun to thin.

  In many ways, he reminds Smith of Adamus. Another spoiled brat who's never had to struggle to survive. They scoff in judgment, “You couldn’t shoot a straight arrow to save your—”

  Something knocks into their head from behind, fast and heavy.

  Smith colpses, their vision blurs. A child stands over them. Mystic?

  They close their eyes, and everything goes dark.