"Thalia!" Heappal barked. "Don't wander!"
But she was already climbing, driven by frustration. She needed to feel tall, seen, acknowledged. With a few quick steps, she perched on a thick branch and shouted up to the sky:
"I'm so tired of being ignored! Can someone—anyone—just notice me for once!"
It echoed.
A bird flew off a tree nearby.
Then a louder, heavier sound answered: bootsteps. Two of them. Crunching toward them from the east.
Heappal's head whipped in the direction. His hand went instantly to his sword. "Thalia… get down. Now."
Too late.
From the underbrush, two towering figures emerged—bearded, broad, and bristling with weapons. One had a massive rust-stained axe slung over his shoulder. The other chewed on a piece of twig like it was a bone.
"Well, well," said the one with the axe, eyes scanning them like prized cattle. "Looks like the prince's hounds left a trail."
