One Hour

I didn't hear the blast, which meant it hadn't hit me. It meant Atlas, despite his Elder God power, was still wounded, his aim momentarily ragged from the distraction and the exertion. That was my only grace, a razor-thin margin of error I had to exploit until Jerrick arrived.
The terrain immediately became my enemy. The forest floor here was a treacherous mat of exposed roots and wet stones. I was a Queen, trained in combat and survival, but I was also heavy with child and running on pure adrenaline and terror. Every stumble jarred my bones and sent a wave of nausea.
*Run. North. Toward the ridge.*
The silver dagger was back in my hand, no longer a communication beacon, but a weapon of last resort. It guided me, its faint chill countering the burning heat of my fear. Atlas wasn’t being quiet. He was shouting, his voice a manic, broken howl that echoed through the dark trees.
"You're making it worse, little Queen! Every second you run, I know where you are! You smell of the King's blood and your own fear!"
I knew he was trying to break my focus, to wear me down psychologically. But his words only solidified my resolve. I focused on the image of Sophie’s bright, worried eyes and the steady, quiet presence of my son, **Lysander**. They were ahead—I had to trust that their own Dragon instincts were guiding them away from the noise.
Suddenly, the ground dropped away. I nearly plunged into a shallow, mud-slick ravine, catching myself only by slamming my free hand against a rough tree trunk. I scrambled down one side, slipping and catching myself again, before struggling up the other. The delay cost me precious seconds.
Behind me, the howling stopped. A silence, far more terrifying than the noise, settled over the forest.
I pushed myself harder. I needed a break in the terrain, a feature, anything that could put a temporary wall between us. The Old Watchtower Ridge—that was the key. It was a jagged, steep escarpment; if I could reach the base and begin the ascent, I could potentially lose him in the shadows and broken rock long enough for Jerrick's arrival.
The Queen's mind raced, calculating the distance, the time, the risk. **Forty-five minutes remaining.**
*What did he mean by "making it worse"?*
The King's Presence, the residual power I had used to distract Atlas, was fading. But the energy of the transmission—the massive, focused burst I'd sent to Jerrick—was like a flare. Atlas, with his Elder God sensitivity, wouldn't need to physically track me; he was tracking the *wake* of my magic.
I was sprinting into a trap of my own making.
I veered violently off my Northward vector, taking a sudden, sharp turn **due East**, crashing through a thicket of thorn bushes that tore at my clothes and skin. The pain was dull and distant. I had to break the magical trail. I needed something vast, something ancient, to absorb or muffle the power I was leaking.
The sound of his heavy, frantic breathing returned, closer now, but still just behind my last position. I had bought myself a few moments of confusion.
I needed an idea. A desperate, Dragon-level idea.
*I know this forest better than he does. I know the old ways.*
My eyes scanned the darkness, searching for the ancient, powerful markers I had walked past a thousand times. The old **Ley Lines**. They crisscrossed the forest, silent rivers of pure, untainted magic.
If I could reach an active Ley Line intersection...
The Siphon
I spotted it: a trio of massive, granite monoliths, half-buried in the earth, marking a potent nexus point where three Ley Lines converged. They were dormant to the common eye, but I felt the deep, humming power within them.
It was a risk. A huge one. Interacting with that much raw power could kill me, or worse, make the beacon I was trying to hide even stronger.
But I had no choice.
I gripped the consecrated dagger tight, turning to face the direction I knew Atlas was approaching from. I ran directly toward the monoliths, not trying to hide, but to use the power.
I reached the central stone and slammed my palm against the rough, cold granite. The energy was shocking, freezing, like plunging my hand into ice water. I didn't try to draw on it. I didn't try to manipulate it.
I did the opposite.
I opened the channel, letting the residual magic from my transmission—the frantic power, the **King's Presence**, the terror—flow *out* of me and into the ancient, vast magical network. It was like bleeding into a boundless ocean. The pain was immense, a wrenching, magical exhaustion that threatened to drop me to my knees.
I held it, forcing the siphon open for three agonizing seconds, until the humming in the monolith became a low, audible thrum. When I pulled my hand back, the consecrated dagger felt truly cold again, no longer pulsing. The magic was gone. I was just a woman, alone in the dark.
I had broken the trail.
"**Where are you?**" Atlas's voice was a low, guttural snarl, confused and furious. He was no longer a dozen steps away, but maybe a hundred, searching the place where the Ley Line had swallowed my scent.
I sank into the shadow behind the monolith, catching my breath. Thirty-five minutes remained.
Now, I was running blind, relying solely on wits and luck. But so was he.