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The lower trail would be easiest—a widened path used by trading caravans that curves gradually upward into the mountain passes. But it's also regularly patrolled by both felines and dragons, depending on whose territory currently claims it. After yesterday's news about the border redrawing, feline patrols will likely be increased to establish dominance.

Instead, I turn toward a nearly invisible game trail that cuts more directly upward. It's steeper, rockier, and far more dangerous—but also less likely to be watched. I've used it only twice before, guiding specialized traders with rare goods who preferred to avoid official inspection.

The first hour passes in determined silence broken only by my labored breathing as I climb steadily upward. The physical exertion helps focus my mind away from the growing discomfort of my condition, though each step sends jolts of awareness through increasingly sensitive nerve endings.

I navigate carefully around a patch of loose scree, knowing from past experience how treacherous it can be. Three years ago, I watched a trader break his leg here when the seemingly solid ground gave way. I stick to the rocky outcroppings on the right side, using my knowledge of which stones will bear weight and which might shift.

The sun crests the eastern mountains as I reach the first natural landmark—a twisted juniper tree growing impossibly from a crack in a massive boulder. I pause here to drink from my water skin and check my bearings. Below, Blackridge Settlement has awakened fully, tiny figures moving between buildings like ants in a disturbed nest. From this distance, it looks so small, so vulnerable beneath the looming shadow of Shadowthorn Outpost.

I wonder briefly if they've discovered my absence yet. If the felines will bother searching for one escaped omega when they have an entire newly-claimed territory to manage.

Another wave of heat, stronger than before, crashes through me without warning. My legs buckle as liquid warmth rushes between my thighs, the unmistakable slick of omega preparation soaking through my undergarments. A whimper escapes my throat—a sound I don't recognize as my own—as my body clenches around emptiness that suddenly, desperately needs to be filled.

No. Not yet. It's too soon.

I force myself upright, leaning against the boulder until the wave passes. Each cycle comes stronger and closer together than the last. My carefully calculated timeline is collapsing with each passing hour.

"Keep moving," I whisper to myself, the sound of my voice startlingly loud in the mountain stillness. "Just keep moving."

The game trail narrows as it winds higher, skirting sheer drops that would mean certain death with a single misstep. In normal circumstances, I'd navigate this path with confidence born of experience. Now, my vision occasionally blurs with heat fever, my balance compromised by waves of need that strike without warning.

By mid-morning, I've reached the first mountain pass—a narrow corridor between towering rock faces where wind howls with mournful persistence. The temperature drops noticeably here despite the strengthening sun, providing momentary relief from my internal fire. The path ahead becomes less steep but more exposed, cutting across open scree slopes visible from multiple vantage points.

I pause to consider my options. The most direct route continues across the exposed mountainside. The safer pathdrops into a forested ravine before climbing again—longer but with better cover from aerial observation.

The decision is made for me when another heat wave hits, this one strong enough to drop me to my knees. My pack slides from suddenly nerveless fingers as I curl forward, arms wrapped around my middle as though I could somehow contain the inferno building inside. Between my thighs, slick gushes embarrassingly, soaking through my pants in a visible stain I can no longer hide.

"Please," I whisper to no one, to anyone, as tears of frustrated humiliation burn behind my eyelids. "Not like this."

The forested ravine, then. I need cover, need to rest, need to regain control before continuing. With trembling hands, I retrieve my pack and force myself toward the tree line below, each step jarring oversensitive flesh in ways that send conflicting signals of discomfort and unwanted pleasure.

The forest embraces me with blessed dimness, dappled sunlight filtering through pine branches in patterns that seem to sway and pulse with my fever vision. I find a small clearing beside a narrow stream and collapse against a fallen log, fumbling for Nyssa's herbal mixture with desperate hands.

The bitter taste barely registers as I swallow a larger portion than recommended, hoping for any relief that might extend my window of lucidity. I splash cold stream water on my face, neck, and wrists, though the momentary coolness evaporates almost instantly against my burning skin.

As I wait for the herbs to take effect, I allow myself a moment to imagine what awaits in dragon territory. I picture the alpha who might claim me—magnificent and powerful, scales gleaming like living jewels in sunlight. Dragons stand even taller than felines, their transformations more complete when they shift forms. Their voices carry dual tones that vibrate throughhuman bones, their presence commands respect rather than just fear.

But Nyssa's words intrude again—"they used her for target practice after they were done with her heat. Said her screams were... musical."The image of burns, of flesh seared by something beautiful yet deadly, ripples through my fantasy. What if I'm wrong? What if my dreams are built on childish fantasy rather than truth?

I push the doubts away. Even if there's danger, I've made my choice. Better the risk of dragon fire than the certainty of a feline breeding facility.

The herbs finally dull the edge of my symptoms, though not as effectively as before. I rise on shaky legs, reorienting myself toward the path ahead. Two more mountain passes separate me from dragon territory. If I push hard, I might reach the border by nightfall, though I'll be deep in heat by then.

Better to be claimed by a dragon in full heat than processed through a feline facility.

I follow the stream upward as it narrows toward its source, using the sound of running water to mask my passage. The forest thins as I climb, trees becoming stunted and wind-twisted the higher I go. By early afternoon, I've reached the second pass—a wider corridor with less wind but more evidence of regular travel.

Caution makes me pause at the tree line, scanning for any sign of patrols before committing to the exposed path ahead. The herbs are wearing off faster than before, my body burning through them as heat symptoms accelerate. Another hour, maybe two, before I lose coherent thought entirely.

The pass appears empty, no movement betraying watchers or travelers. I step out from cover, moving as quickly as my increasingly uncooperative body allows. Halfway acrossthe exposed ground, a scent hits me—musky and sharp, with unmistakable predatory notes.

Feline.

I freeze, scanning desperately for the source. There—at the far end of the pass, two lean figures materialize from behind rock formations where they must have been waiting. Scout patrols, moving with the predatory grace unique to their kind.

I back toward the tree line, heart hammering painfully in my chest. Perhaps they haven't seen me yet. Perhaps I can make it back to cover, find another route—maybe the narrow ledge path I'd noted on previous expeditions, the one that skirts the eastern face of the mountain.

The wind shifts, blowing directly from me toward them. I watch in horror as both scouts stiffen, heads lifting as they catch my scent on the breeze—omega, in pre-heat, unmistakable to their enhanced senses despite the herbal masking agents.