Cache's Arc

Chapter 5 of 8

Cache stepped out of the hollow tree and immediately saw the problem. The open ground stretched wide between here and the old oak tree, crossed by a shallow stream that ran over smooth stones. Gold grass lined both banks, pale and soft in the afternoon light. A fallen log lay halfway across, its bleached bark broken in places where bark chips had scattered. Cache could cross the stream using the log, but every step would leave prints in the soft ground on either side. Worse, a small building sat near the stream—some kind of hatchery with rough wooden walls and a rounded roof. Through the doorway, Cache spotted movement: a baby creature with blue scales and purple spikes waddling between eggshells. If it looked up, it would see Cache crossing. Cache's legs tensed. This was exactly the kind of exposure that made disguises useless. Cache studied the stream again. The stones in the water looked stable enough to step on without sinking. Water wouldn't hold prints the way mud would. But the banks were the real problem—Cache would have to touch ground on both sides, and the gold grass would show exactly where Cache entered and exited. Cache pulled out the clean canvas from earlier and tore it into two strips. Then Cache wrapped one strip around each leg, tucking the edges tight against the shell. The fabric wouldn't camouflage Cache's legs this time. Instead, it would keep dye and residue from transferring to the grass. Cache tested the wrapping by pressing a leg against the hollow tree's bark. No mark. No color transfer. The canvas held. Cache moved fast. The stream stones were cold and slick under Cache's wrapped legs, but they held Cache's weight without shifting. Cache stepped from stone to stone, checking each one before committing. Halfway across, the baby creature in the hatchery chirped and turned toward the doorway. Cache froze on a flat stone in the middle of the stream, legs locked in place. The creature's big eyes scanned the area, then focused on something inside the building. It turned back to its eggshells. Cache finished crossing and reached the far bank. The gold grass bent under Cache's steps, but when Cache moved past and looked back, the wrapped legs had left nothing behind. No dye stains. No crushed color. Just bent grass that was already straightening. Cache reached the old oak tree and unwrapped the canvas strips. They were stained now, marked with dirt and water and grass, but Cache's legs were clean underneath. The wrapping had worked. Cache looked back at the stream and the open ground beyond it. For the first time, Cache had crossed exposed space without marking it. The path showed no prints, no color, no trail pointing back to where Cache had been. It wasn't a perfect disguise. It wasn't even close to the shell cover Cache had imagined. But it was something better: proof that Cache could move through the world without announcing it. Cache folded the dirty canvas strips and tucked them against the oak tree's roots. The disguise would still matter. But now Cache knew that staying hidden wasn't just about looking right—it was about leaving nothing behind to follow. That changed everything.