CHAPTER 8
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THE COUNCIL
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Cornelius tears through the Whispering Forest in nothing but his long johns and boots — scraped, bruised, shivering, and utterly pathetic. Branches lash his arms and face as he runs, each sting convincing him someone is right behind him.
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Because someone is.
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His breath hitches. He bends over for half a second, hands on his knees, clutching a cramp in his side — then forces himself forward again, near tears.
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Behind him, the dogs bark.
Closer this time.
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He's been running for miles, deeper and deeper into the forest, and still the bloodhounds refuse to lose his scent. Their howls roll through the trees like a death knell. Cornelius gasps, stumbling over roots, lungs burning.
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A single bark cracks the air — sharp, triumphant.
One of the hounds has spotted him.
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Cornelius whips his head around. Eighty meters back, a massive bloodhound burst through the brush, signaling the others and the Great City guards behind them.
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Cornelius chokes on a sob and sprints harder.
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The trees suddenly break open into a clearing. Far below, carved into the mountainside, he sees a small hut — a tiny speck of safety he could never reach in time. The elevated trail curves toward a roaring river and a waterfall that vanishes into the mist.
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The dogs are closing in on him now.
One snaps at his backside, teeth grazing cloth.
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Cornelius' instincts activate.
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He jumps.
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The world drops away.
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He falls forever.
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Then the river swallows him whole — icy, violent, punishing. The current drags him under, spinning him like a rag doll. He fights upward, lungs screaming, and finally bursts through the surface, coughing, flailing, barely alive.
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A splash behind him — the attackers dog had leapt in after him.
The other two hounds pace the cliff with the infantry, barking furiously.
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Cornelius kicks, claws, swimming with everything he has left. Somehow, by miracle or madness, he reaches the far bank and collapses onto the mud, chest heaving, vision swimming.
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He doesn't dare look back.
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He crawls behind a thick bush just as a wagon rattles down the nearby path — four horses yoked, a husband and wife riding atop it. The wife reads a fairy tale aloud, her voice soft and oblivious.
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Cornelius waits……
Then slips into the back of the wagon like a ghost.
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The wagon jolts.
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Villager Husband:
“…Did you feel that?”
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Villager Wife (still reading)
“No.”
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He shrugs and flicks the reins.
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In the back, Cornelius lays on his back, wide‑eyed, shaking, watching his own breath fog in the cold air. He closes his eyes and prays.
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Scene fades
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