The forest whispered its secrets as Malric pushed through the underbrush. The sunlight above waned, fading into the shadows of twisted trees that loomed over him like skeletal sentinels. It was the grove he had been searching for—or perhaps it had found him. The air grew dense, laden with the earthy smell of rot and the faint hum of latent magic.

Gnarled branches arched overhead, forming a natural dome that blocked out most of the sky. The ground was carpeted with moss and vines, their surfaces glistening faintly as though they drank in the ambient energy of the place. A shallow pool of stagnant water rested at the center, its surface untouched by even the slightest breeze.

Malric paused to take in the grove’s eerie beauty, feeling the shaman’s spine within him stir as though in recognition. It was a place of power, and he felt its resonance. Here, he thought, I will learn.

Sitting cross-legged on the damp ground, Malric steadied himself. He focused inward, feeling the threads of magic thrumming through the shaman’s spine. The energy was chaotic, like a feral beast scratching at the walls of his consciousness. To master it, he knew, he must guide it without forcing control.

He began by focusing on simple tasks, extending his hand and willing the magic to respond. A small twig on the ground trembled but refused to lift. He tried again, this time using less force, coaxing rather than commanding. The twig rose an inch, quivering in the air, before dropping back to the moss.

The frustration was palpable, but Malric’s patience held firm. Hours passed as he practiced, the magic surging and receding like a tide. Slowly, he began to feel its rhythm, its flow.

With newfound understanding, he attempted something more intricate. Closing his eyes, he envisioned the ground beneath him as pliable, a canvas for his will. He extended his hand again, and the magic responded, pooling into the earth. When he opened his eyes, dark tendrils snaked upward from the soil. They were weak and flickered like dying flames, but they existed.

“Shadow Grasp,” he muttered, naming the spell as the tendrils dissipated back into the earth.

Determined, he tried again. The magic felt smoother now, as though the grove itself guided his efforts. The tendrils rose stronger, curling and writhing in the air. They reached out, latching onto a nearby root, pulling it with surprising force before fading once more.

The spell left Malric drained, but exhilaration coursed through his hollow frame. He stood, his body creaking as he moved. Shadow Grasp was a spell of utility and control, a weapon to bind his enemies or trap prey. The implications of its use filled his mind with possibilities.

The grove darkened as night fell, the faint glow of the moss now his only source of light. Malric stood still, letting the quiet wash over him. He closed his eye sockets and extended his senses outward. The threads of magic in the grove became clearer, weaving an unseen tapestry of life and decay.

For the first time, he felt truly connected to the magic around him, as though he were no longer an intruder but a part of its natural order. He had taken his first true step into mastering the arcane.

Malric lingered in the grove a while longer, testing Shadow Grasp a few more times until his strength waned. He turned to leave, his ribs creaking as he moved.

The forest stretched wide and silent, its stillness broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the faint calls of distant birds. Malric moved with purpose, his skeletal frame gliding through the underbrush as though he were part of the shadows themselves. The grove’s lingering energy buzzed faintly within him, the shaman's spine urging him forward with the promise of greater mastery.

His empty eye sockets scanned the forest floor, searching for signs of life. He found them in abundance: claw marks gouged into tree bark, droppings scattered near roots, and freshly trampled grass. Whatever made these marks had passed through recently.

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Then he saw it—a large deer grazing in a clearing, its brown coat blending almost seamlessly with the surrounding foliage. Its ears twitched nervously, and its head bobbed up and down, alert for danger but unaware of the predator stalking it.

Malric crouched low, his fingers digging into the damp soil. This was the opportunity he sought. The deer was large enough to be a challenge, but not so powerful as to overwhelm him. Most importantly, it was alive—a true test for the magic now coursing through his bones.

He extended one hand toward the deer, feeling the familiar pull of the shaman's spine as he summoned his power. The ground beneath the deer trembled faintly, dark tendrils beginning to rise like smoke materializing into substance.

The spell activated suddenly, and the tendrils shot forward, wrapping around the deer’s legs and torso. The animal’s eyes went wide with terror as it tried to flee, but the tendrils held firm. For a brief moment, Malric felt exhilaration—this was control, this was power.

But then, the deer thrashed violently, its hooves striking the ground with desperate force. The tendrils wavered, their grip slipping as the creature’s strength tested their limits. Malric gritted his teeth, focusing harder, but he could feel the energy draining from him. The tendrils flickered, their substance thinning until they vanished entirely.

The deer stumbled free, bolting into the forest before Malric could react. He watched it disappear, the echoes of its frantic flight fading into the distance.

He dropped his hand and sat back against a tree, his bones creaking as he shifted his weight. The thrill of his first success was tempered by the harsh reality of its limits. The spell had potential, but it was flawed:

The tendrils lacked the strength to hold a larger, more powerful creature for long.

The energy cost was significant, leaving him vulnerable after each use.

Precision was required—if the tendrils missed their mark, the spell would fail entirely.

“I am not invincible,” Malric muttered to himself, the sound of his voice echoing faintly in the quiet forest. It was an uncomfortable truth, but one he had to accept. The power he craved required more than blind ambition; it demanded understanding and adaptability.

He rose slowly, testing his joints and stretching his arms. The failure was a lesson, one he would not forget. The spell would serve as a tool, not a crutch—a part of his arsenal, not the entirety of it.

With renewed determination, Malric turned his gaze back toward the forest. There were more creatures to hunt, more opportunities to learn and grow. The deer had escaped, but the knowledge he gained was worth far more than a single kill.

As the shadows deepened around him, Malric moved once more into the dark, ready for the next challenge.

Malric wandered through the forest, his skeletal feet crunching softly against the underbrush. The air carried an unusual heaviness, not one of storm or heat, but of something unseen, something faintly tingling at the edge of perception. The shaman’s spine pulsed within him, an alien rhythm that hummed in tune with the environment.

"This magic," Malric mused, his thoughts circling the unfamiliar sensation. "It’s everywhere, woven into the roots, the trees, the very stones beneath my feet. Subtle, elusive, but present all the same."

He stopped, kneeling to place a clawed hand on the earth. The sensation intensified, a faint whisper in his mind as though the land itself was alive and speaking to him.

“It isn’t power I feel—it’s potential,” he thought, his bony fingers tracing patterns in the dirt. “The shaman’s spine connects me to this… network, yet I can only grasp fragments of it. Like staring into a deep well and seeing only ripples.”

His jaw clicked in frustration. The energy was there, just out of reach. If he could harness it, refine it, perhaps even learn to track its origins, it could lead him to the Basilisk’s Fang. After all, magic like this could not exist without practitioners who shaped and directed it.

“Those who wield power are never far from ambition. And ambition…” He paused, his skull tilting upward as if he could see through the canopy. “Ambition draws the likes of the Basilisk’s Fang like moths to flame.”

Rising to his full height, Malric considered his options. The shaman’s spine gave him a rudimentary sense for magic, but he needed more—clarity, direction, a way to turn this vague awareness into a proper tool.

First, he would need to find a place steeped in magic. The grove had been a nexus of sorts, but it was spent now, its energy dispersed. Another source would exist, somewhere nearby—he was certain of it.

Second, information was key. While he could search blindly for traces of the Basilisk’s Fang, a more direct approach would save time. Traders, mercenaries, travelers—anyone could be carrying rumors of the organization’s movements. Perhaps even this new magical sense could help him discern truth from lies.

Finally, he needed to prepare for confrontation. His fight with the boar had been a sobering reminder of his own limits. Without careful planning and sufficient strength, he would be little more than another corpse to the Basilisk’s Fang.

Malric emerged from the forest as the sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting long shadows over the landscape. In the distance, he saw the faint outline of a road, a well-trodden path cutting through the wilderness.

“Roads bring people, and people bring answers,” he thought, setting off with purpose. His skeletal form moved with eerie grace, his additional arms folded close to his torso to maintain a more human silhouette.

As he walked, his mind turned to the Basilisk’s Fang. He thought of the web they wove: dealers, criminals, merchants, all connected in a chain of deceit and profit. If he was to follow that chain, he needed to find the next link—a clue, a contact, a lead that could point him in the right direction.

By nightfall, he spotted signs of human activity: discarded supplies near the road, faint smoke rising in the distance. A camp, most likely. He paused, deliberating. Approaching humans always carried risk, especially now with his growing, inhuman frame. Yet he could not turn away from an opportunity to gather information.

The chapter ends with Malric stepping toward the source of the smoke, his form swallowed by the shadows of the approaching night.