Guidry's Arc

Chapter 11 of 14

The trail narrowed ahead, winding between collapsed stone walls that jutted from the mud like broken teeth. Guidry followed the creature's path, reading the depth of each claw mark to judge how recently it had passed. Then he saw them—boot prints, clear and deliberate, pressed into the soft earth alongside the dragged scales. He crouched low, measuring the tread. Fresh prints, maybe an hour old, heading toward the ruins. Someone else had followed the same trail, walked through the same territory he'd calculated was too dangerous for anyone but him to navigate. The prints were confident, evenly spaced—whoever made them knew what they were doing. Ahead, firelight flickered through a gap in the collapsed walls. A camp stove hung suspended over flames still burning bright, the bronze surface catching the orange glow. Someone had set up here, close enough to the ruins to watch them. Guidry's chest tightened. His advantage—being the only guide who could track through marked territory—was already gone. He pushed past the campfire and found the body twenty feet beyond. A man in a black hooded cloak lay sprawled in the mud, torn apart at the torso, one arm twisted at an impossible angle. The creature had caught him. Guidry studied the claw marks in the dirt around the corpse, then looked back at the confident boot prints leading to this spot. The stranger had known how to navigate the trail, but he hadn't known when to stop. Guidry exhaled slowly. His skill wasn't just reading the creature's path—it was knowing when that path became a trap. He straightened and motioned Croaker and Stryker forward, his calculation settling into certainty. The ruins were close, and now he knew exactly what separated a capable tracker from one who survived.