Artemis knelt where the beast's tracks ended. For three days she had chased the creature Hera made to guard a secret about Aether, her own mentee. The tracks were fresh gouges in the moss, each one deeper than a man's foot. Then, at the edge of her woods, they stopped. No print marked the ground beyond. She pressed her palm to the last mark and felt nothing but cold dirt. She stood and scanned the treeline. Nothing bent. Nothing bled. A creature that heavy could not simply lift off without a sign, yet the ground held no more of it. Artemis had tracked wolves across bare stone. The dryads taught her that every living thing leaves a pattern. This thing had broken the rule, and that scared her more than its size. She whistled once, low. Her white hind stepped from the trees. Gold antlers caught the last light, and moon marks glowed pale on her flank. Arrows filled the silver quiver strapped to her side. This deer had run down every quarry Artemis ever named. "You smell what I can't," Artemis said, and stroked her nose. The hind lowered her head and sniffed the dead trail. Her ears flattened. She turned from the ground and lifted her muzzle to the sky. She stamped one brazen hoof, hard, and looked up again. Artemis followed her gaze. High above the canopy, a single black feather drifted down. Not a bird's feather. Too large, edged in dull bronze, turning slow as it fell. She caught it. The vane was stiff and cold, and it smelled of smoke and old iron. The beast had not fled through her woods. It had gone up, into the open air where no tracker walks. She understood then why the trail died. She could read soil, bark, and blood. She could not read wind. On foot she would lose the creature for good. Artemis ran to the clearing where her chariot waited. The moon-shaped carriage gleamed gold, and four white deer stood harnessed in luminous reins. She climbed aboard and gripped the rail. Her hind leapt in beside her, ready to hunt from the air as she did on the ground. "Take me up," Artemis said. She snapped the reins. The four deer sprang skyward. The woods dropped away beneath her. Wind tore at her golden hair, and she held the bronze feather to the fading light. She turned it slowly until the smoke-scent grew stronger against the breeze. The feather pulled faintly toward the north, where a thin dark shape crossed the clouds. She had found her direction. But the beast now flew in Hera's own domain, the sky, far from any forest that would answer to her. Artemis notched a gold arrow and fixed her eyes on the distant shape. The hunt had left her woods, and she could not turn back.