The crunch of leaves on the floor below quietened as her pursuers passed underneath. Thank the ancients they didn’t have a hound on them. Caw stifled a shudder. Hounds. Wretched things, maddened, only half alive. Mindless weapons of the inquisition, their sacred gifts now only used to betray their former kin. Her fate if they found her.

Rays of light drifted over her. The flap of a bird's wing nearby. Grasshoppers chirping. The crunching sound fading, disappearing amongst the croaks and rustling of the fauna. It was a perfect day. Caw could have easily dozed the afternoon away on that tree branch, but she shouldn’t dawdle. Rock would be waiting for her on the other side of the wood, hopefully out of the path of the hunters. Suddenly ice, running down her spine as a sing-song voice called from the ground.

“Pretty little mouse, little bird, tweet tweet, where could you be hiding?”

Shit. How did she not notice the hound before? She was certain there hadn’t been one with them. Caw held her breath, silently begging for it to leave. The tree stood firm and silent.

“Oh little bird, caw, caw, caw…”

Caw opened her eyes. No point hiding now. Time to run. She leapt up and felt the whoosh of a dart graze her cheek. Just in time. She darted upwards, higher, higher into the upper branches. From below came the howl, and the maddened laughter of the hound as she gave chase. Not she, no. It was no longer a she, the no-name wretch. Not even an animal, for even animals have their names. The branch of a sister tree extended across to greet her. Grateful, Caw hopped on to it, her bare feet padding against the bark. She jumped again, vaulting over a branch and darting through the leaves. If only Rock were here, she thought.

Her, alone, against a hound and a full hunting party? Not the best odds. She wished that she was still in the bookshop. They wouldn’t dare attack her there, not under the eyes of civilians. Another dart whistled past her. She leapt again, on to the next tree. They were being especially kind today, helping her out like this. She would remember. A bolt of heat brushed her shoulder, and she yelped in pain, almost losing grip of the branch. Goddess, no. Not a fire one. Anything but a fire hound. Another bolt, then a scattershot of darts. They were all in now, giddy with the thrill of the hunt coursing through their veins. Caw heard a creak of strained wood not far behind her. The hound was now in the trees and gaining. Soon it wouldn’t be running anymore, it would be fighting. Blood and bone. Something Caw despised. A necessary evil, as Rock would say. Just like killing a deer to eat, sometimes one has to kill to survive.

Killing, though, always felt deeply, fundamentally wrong. Maybe, if she could gain enough distance, and hide a little better, she wouldn’t have to kill this one, even if killing it would put the poor thing out of its misery. The smell of burning hit her nostrils.

The tree! The tree that had hidden her. The warm, motherly tree who helped her, didn’t rat her out, its branches were now burning. Killing it is then. We don’t spare the vicious wasps who attack butterflies. Caw leaned up against the tree trunk, drew her blade and exhaled, sinking again into the bark. She listened. The distant flap of a bird's wing. A croaking frog. Her own heartbeat.

The snapping of twigs underfoot came from her left, and quick as a whiplash she struck. The blade sank into its target. The hound's eyes widened, and for a moment, Caw imagined that it could remember its old name. Too late, my sister. I’m sorry. Caw wrenched the blade away, taking with it the hound's throat, and the blood sprayed, covering the canopy in rich crimson.