Sydney’s quick. She yells. Waves. Jumps to distract it, but—of course—our remaining boar has a scrap of focus.

Its beady eyes find me, and it charges.

I flash through my options: too far from the other side of the arena, can’t stand my ground, can’t use the mannequin in defense, can’t carry it and outrun the boar.

I grab Sydney’s knife and shoot to my feet, shouting at her, “Get it to safety!” I hope she knows what I mean.

I sprint back to our base, but arc wide so that the boar after me will curve too—and avoid trampling the lifeless mannequin on the ground.

Behind me, thundering hooves pound the earth. My thighs and lungs are on fire. Still, I push harder. I can hear its breathing—heavy grunts through a wet snout.

I veer left again to buy myself time, but the change in direction is too sharp, too fast. Something pulls painfully in my left knee. I keep running and fling myself into the ditch. My shoulder clips a pine tree, bark digs into my arm, but the frustrated squeal behind me lets me know I’ve made it. I’m safe.

When I twist back on my knees and look up, the boar is pawing at the ground and snorting in my direction. I hold my breath and watch as its heavy head begins swinging back and forth. Searching.

I’m less than six feet away, why is it—

It can’t see me. Its eyes are weak.

A twig snaps beneath my right foot, and its ears flick forward, its snout lifting in a slow, searching pattern.

But it can hear me. It has a good sense of smell. Great.

Did Sydney do what I asked? Did she grab the mannequin and get it to the other side? I don’t bother looking behind me; I know the smallest mannequin is there, still waiting to be rescued. How much time is left?

I hear shouting and pounding feet to my left. Celeste and Mina are still in the arena, still working.

My boar is pacing now, stubbornly waiting for me to come out so it can gore me. I’ve got to do something.

Okay. Think.

I have Sydney’s dagger, but I don’t have her throwing skills or aim. I have my cudgel still strapped to my back, but at this angle I don’t have enough power for more than a hard poke to the chin. I look around, to my side—then up.

I shove Sydney’s dagger handle into my mouth and start climbing the oak tree beside me before I decide whether it’s a good idea or not. All I know is that I know trees. I’ve climbed them since I was a kid. Trees are good.