Guided by Anca through the Carpathians, Mathis and Léna discover recent traces of Viktor proving they're being watched, not hunted. Léna's physical exhaustion forces Mathis to confront his ability to protect someone, while a fork in the trail forces them to choose between speed and safety—revealing their priorities diverge profoundly. On the exposed ridge, Mathis spots a distant metallic glint and understands a chilling truth: they're not fleeing, they're being guided toward an inevitable encounter at the refuge.
The Carpathian spruce forest swallows sound. Not even the crack of branches under boots—just the white silence of altitude, and wind whistling through trunks like ancient breathing. Mathis walks in front, but it's Anca who dictates the pace, her steps regular, almost mechanical, finding roots before her foot meets them.
Léna stumbles behind them.
"You know this trail well," Mathis says without turning. It's not a question. It's a disguised accusation.
Anca doesn't answer immediately. She barely slows, but Mathis notices—that micro-adjustment betraying a conscious decision. She knows he's watching. She lets him watch.
"How many times have you been here?" Mathis insists.
"Enough," Anca replies.
Behind them, Léna gasps, her legs trembling beneath her with each step. She talks to fill the void, a habit she can't break despite days spent in mountain silence.
"Jesus, how fast does this woman walk? It's like she floats over the roots... Mathis, how exactly do you know this Anca? Because I feel like she knows these trails better than her own living room."
Mathis doesn't answer. He studies how Anca reads the terrain—not with her eyes, but with her whole body, as if the mountain speaks to her in a language only she understands. No one learns that by accident, he thinks.
"Slow down," he finally orders.
Anca stops. The silence that follows is thicker than the forest's.
It's at the high-altitude clearing that everything changes. A clearing of fresh snow, almost pristine. Almost.
Anca freezes as if struck by lightning. Mathis sees her shoulders contract, her breathing shift. He follows her gaze to the ground.
The tracks are obvious once you know to look. Military boots, tactical soles with a distinctive pattern Mathis recognizes immediately—professional equipment, not amateur hiker. The prints are recent, maybe forty-eight hours, no more. They go east, then return west, describing a surveillance arc.
"Tactical soles," Mathis murmurs, kneeling. "Forty-eight hours maximum."
He rises slowly, staring at Anca without blinking.
"You knew they'd be here."
Anca examines the tracks with disturbing concentration, as if deciphering a coded message. Her lips move slightly, almost imperceptibly. She's counting something. Steps, maybe. Distances.
"No," Anca finally answers. "I knew someone would be here. I didn't know who."
Léna has gone pale. She looks at the tracks, then Anca, then Mathis, and finally understands what it means.
"Viktor," she breathes. "He's not hunting us. He's letting us run."
Mathis nods. He's watching us. We're fleeing animals, and he's the patient hunter waiting for the opportune moment. The irony strikes him—he who spent fifteen years observing wild beasts, capturing their moments of truth, now finds himself being observed. The prey who became hunter who becomes prey again.
"You," Léna says to Anca, accusatory. "You knew they'd be here. You read the snow like an open book. What's your deal exactly? Are you guiding us to the exit or to him?"
Anca straightens. Her face is impassive, but something glints in her eyes—a decision being made in real time.
"These boots," she says, pointing at the tracks. "Lowa Z-8N. Military equipment. They cost three thousand euros. Your Viktor has resources."
She raises her eyes to the ridgeline above them.
"And he knows where you're going before you even decide."
They resume walking, but the weight has changed. There's no more fleeing—there's a predetermined trajectory. Viktor plots the points, and they connect them by walking.
It's two hours later that Léna stumbles.
A frozen stone, a root hidden under snow, a leg that no longer responds properly. She collapses, unable to get up. Her hands tremble. Her lips have turned pale blue.
"Shit," she breathes. "My legs... they won't..."
Mathis rushes over. The gesture surprises even him—this urgency, this tenderness he hasn't felt in years. He removes his jacket without hesitation, drapes it over Léna's shoulders. It's still warm, charged with his body heat.
"Breathe. Slowly," he says.
For the first time since Anca joined them, Mathis doesn't look at the terrain. He looks at Léna—really looks at her. The exhaustion hollowing her features. The fear dilating her pupils. The determination that remains despite everything.
"We slow down," he announces to Anca. "She won't hold at this pace."
Anca observes the scene without intervening, silently testing Mathis's reliability. When he offers his arm to help her up, something changes in Anca's gaze. Surprise, perhaps. Tacit approval.
"In the Carpathians, we say: 'He who abandons a weakened companion feeds the wolves,'" Anca murmurs. "You—what are you feeding?"
Mathis doesn't answer. He helps Léna up, and they continue.
But the real test comes an hour later, at the fork in the trails.
Two paths diverge. The first: an exposed ridge, direct, that would get them to a refuge in three hours. The second: a wooded valley, hidden, winding, requiring an extra night in the mountains.
Anca states the options without recommendation.
"The ridge," Léna says immediately. "Three hours and we're out. I'm not spending another night in these mountains."
"The valley," Mathis says at the same moment. "Hidden."
They look at each other. Their priorities are written on their faces: Léna is still fleeing. Mathis is still hiding.
"And you?" Léna asks Anca. "You're not recommending anything? What's this game?"
Anca studies the darkening sky, then the exposed ridge glowing in the low afternoon light.
"The fast route," she finally says. "You won't survive another night in this condition."
She pauses. Her tone changes, becomes graver.
"And besides... sometimes hiding is pointless when they already know where you're going."
They take the exposed ridge.
The icy wind lashes them. Visibility is perfect—too perfect. Mathis realizes they're completely exposed, visible for miles. Léna advances mechanically, exhausted beyond thought. Anca walks ahead, imperturbable.
That's when Mathis sees it.
A metallic glint, maybe three kilometers away. Maybe binoculars. Maybe a lens. Maybe nothing. But enough to make his heart stop.
He freezes.
Anca continues as if nothing happened.
"Stop," Mathis breathes.
He scans the horizon. The glint has disappeared. Or maybe it never existed. But certainty settles in him with the clarity of a developed photograph: We're not fleeing. We're being guided.
"Anca," he says, his voice muffled like the wind. "Who are you really expecting at the refuge?"
Anca stops. She turns slowly toward him. Her face is empty, but her eyes shine with new intensity.
"Someone who can help you," she answers. "Or someone who can stop you. You'll see which when you meet them."
She resumes walking toward the exposed ridge, toward the invisible refuge, toward what awaits them on the other side.
Last kilometer. The sky turns orange then gray. And Mathis finally understands—it was never about fleeing. It was about choosing toward whom to flee.
