Hollis ran low through the ivywood, boots quiet on the wet leaves. The hounds bayed behind them, closer than before. In their pack was the last hinge for the next gate — a small, low frame meant for fawns to slip through. Three weeks until the season opened. Hollis had a map of empty spots in their head, and not one of them mattered if the pack caught up now. They cut left toward a deer trail they had scored weeks ago. A gate stood there already, set between mossy posts, deer carved deep into its panels. A small fawn with twig-thin antlers stood frozen beside it, watching Hollis with calm, steady eyes. Hollis did not slow. The fawn dropped and slid under the gate. Hollis vaulted it and kept running. The hounds split the air behind them. Hollis turned hard toward a thicket they remembered — a twisted thornbush, trunk bristling with inch-long spikes, branches knotted into a wall. Hollis circled it twice, dragging their sleeve through the thorns, smearing scent into the wood. Then they bolted sideways through the brush. Ahead, half-swallowed by ivy, sat an old cottage with a low stone base and logs stacked against the back wall. Hollis squeezed between the logs and the wall and went still. The hounds reached the thornbush and lost their minds in it. A yelp. A whine. Confused circling. Hollis listened until the baying turned away. The pack was off the scent, but they had been close — closer than any pack had come before. Someone was working the dogs deliberately. Hollis pressed a hand against the cold logs and understood the work had changed. They were being hunted now too.