The forest was quiet but alive with possibilities. From his perch high in the sturdy branches of a blackwood tree, Grung Knifetongue licked his lips, the malformed cleft in his palate making the sound wet and faintly grotesque. Below, the cries of the fox echoed through the cool air, a sharp, pitiful wail that would draw any soft-hearted fool into the open. The adventurers had appeared minutes earlier, their chatter betraying their positions long before Grung caught sight of them through the dense leaves. His gray-skinned fingers twitched over the taut string of his shortbow.

They were good prey. Not the usual scavengers or beasts—these ones carried gear. Real weapons. One of them, a stocky figure with a mace and shield, even wore some armor. Grung’s heart thudded in anticipation. That mace would fetch a good price, and their coin purses jingled faintly as they moved closer to the lake.

The group paused at the edge of the grassy shore. The fox lay sprawled on its side, its bright orange fur matted with blood, hindquarters caught in the jagged iron maw of Grung’s trap. The largest of the three—a spear-wielding man with no armor to speak of—scanned the tree line, his oddly red eyes sharp. Grung held his breath, melting into the shadow of the branches, his nerves dancing on the edge of panic. Then, the smallest of the group, a dark-haired woman with a sickle hooked at her belt, darted forward. Her voice, soft and urgent, carried through the stillness.

“It’s hurt badly,” she said, crouching beside the fox. Her hands hovered over its trembling body, uncertain. “Hold on. I've got you.”

The man with the mace stepped forward, glancing back toward the trees. “Molly, we should keep g-g-g, Keep moving. This isn't—”

“No,” Molly cut in, her voice snapping with impatience. “Just wait.”

Grung’s lip curled. Foolish. So foolish. He fitted an arrow to his bowstring, his excitement tempered by caution. His black, beady eyes flicked between the spear-wielder and the armored one. The spearman would go down first. Without armor, he’d be easy to drop. Grung took aim, steadying his breath as Molly fussed over the fox, her back turned to him.

The arrow flew, slicing through the air with a faint whistle. It struck the spearman high in the shoulder. He staggered back, a sharp cry escaping his lips as his spear clattered to the ground. Molly’s head whipped around, her eyes wide with shock.

“Kallik!” she shouted.

Grung didn’t wait for her reaction. He nocked another arrow, already shifting his aim to the next target. The armored one—Tomlin, the spearman had called him—raised his shield, his face pale but determined. Grung grunted in frustration. Shields were a nuisance. Perhaps the razorcrows would distract him.

Grung clicked his tongue sharply, a guttural command that sent the razorcrows into a frenzy. Their harsh cries sliced through the forest’s uneasy quiet as they descended, black-feathered shapes swooping low with claws outstretched toward the group. Grung didn’t care if they succeeded. They were a tool, nothing more. He fired again, the arrow glancing off Tomlin’s shield with a sharp thunk. The hobgoblin hissed through his teeth, his excitement giving way to irritation. They weren’t running yet.

Below, the spearman pulled himself to his feet, blood streaming down his arm. Molly had drawn her sickle, her face set with near panic, while Tomlin batted at the razorcrows with his shield.

Grung’s nerves frayed. They weren’t supposed to fight back like this. The spear-wielder, Kallik, suddenly straightened, his crimson eyes locking onto Grung with an intensity that froze the hobgoblin in place. Kallik raised his weapon, pointing the spear directly at Grung.

Grung let out a scoffing laugh. “Point all you like, stick-man. Won’t stop this.”

But the spear tip began to glow, a blinding white light gathering at its tip. Before Grung could process what was happening, the light shot forth, forming a spearhead-shaped projectile wreathed in ethereal white fire. The projectile streaked toward him with impossible precision.

Grung yelped, instinctively dropping from his tree. The world tilted as he fell, his stomach lurching with the motion. Mid-fall, his beady eyes widened in horror as the blazing projectile twisted in the air, turning to follow him like a predator locked on its prey.

He raised his arms in desperation to shield himself. The magical spear struck him square in the chest, burning through his crude leathers and slicing into his gray skin. Pain exploded through his ribs as he crashed into the ground below. The wound was not deep, but it hurt enough to make him flinch. His next shot went wild, the arrow flying uselessly into the trees as he hissed in agony. The pain coursing through his chest was too much, and for the first time, a flicker of genuine fear gripped him.

Grung scrambled to his feet, the razorcrows still darting and clawing at the adventurers. They were a distraction, just enough to cover his retreat. Clutching his side, he turned and bolted deeper into the forest, his gray feet pounding against the underbrush. Branches slapped at his face and arms as he ran, but he didn’t dare stop or look back.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

The sounds of combat and shouts faded behind him as the shadows of the blackwood trees enveloped him. Grung gritted his teeth, forcing himself to keep moving despite the searing pain in his chest. His prey had been more trouble than they were worth, and he cursed himself for underestimating them. But he was alive, and that was all that mattered.

***

The razorcrows lay still, their black feathers scattered across the grass near Tomlin’s feet. He stood with his shield resting against his leg, his mace held loosely in one hand, surveying the forest’s edge. Red scratches lined his face and arms, but he seemed otherwise unbothered, though his cautious gaze darted through the trees.

Molly, crouched a short distance away, was nearly oblivious to him and Kallik. Her attention fixed entirely on the fox caught in the trap. The creature trembled as she worked, her hands moving carefully to avoid jostling its wounded leg. Quarrel chirped nervously from his perch in her tangled hair, his tiny claws gripping tightly. She gave him a gentle nudge with one finger.

“Hush, Quarrel,” she murmured under her breath, her tone soft and steady. “It’s all right. Just a bit longer.”

The fox’s bright orange fur was matted with blood, and Molly’s fingers were slick as she worked to loosen the crude iron jaws of the trap. She knew the others were close by, felt their movements at the edges of her awareness, but she kept her focus on the animal. Its sharp, terrified eyes flicked to her every so often, and she murmured calming words, her voice barely above a whisper.

Kallik approached from the forest’s edge, his steps heavy but deliberate. His hand rested on the arrow shaft lodged in his shoulder, the wooden shaft wobbling slightly with each step. He glanced at Tomlin, who was still scanning the tree line.

“It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would,” Kallik said, his voice laced with mild curiosity. “Not deep, though. Should come out easy.”

Tomlin’s eyes flicked to the arrow, then to Kallik’s face. “Y-you sure?” he asked.

Kallik nodded, gripping the arrow’s base with one hand. “Yeah. Probably.”

With a quick motion, he yanked the arrow free. His expression barely shifted, but his next breath came sharply. Blood welled up from the gash left behind, staining his tunic a darker red. He grimaced.

“Hurts more now,” he admitted, holding a hand over the wound as if to stop the bleeding. His eyes met Tomlin’s briefly, but the smaller man’s attention had already returned to the forest.

“B-bad idea,” Tomlin muttered. He adjusted his shield, his grip on the handle tightening. “H-he might still b-be out there.”

Molly didn’t glance up, but she could hear the exchange clearly. Her jaw tightened as she carefully pried open the last hinge of the trap. With a faint metallic creak, the iron jaws released, and the fox flinched away. It limped a few feet, then collapsed onto the grass, its sides heaving with labored breaths.

“Got it,” Molly said softly, brushing her bloodied hands on her pant legs. Quarrel chittered in relief, though he still refused to leave her hair. She reached toward the fox, her movements slow and deliberate, her voice calming. “Easy now. You’re okay. Let me see how bad it is.”

Behind her, Kallik adjusted his grip on his spear, his sharp eyes flicking to the treetops and back. Tomlin stood as still as a statue, his shoulders tense.

“If he’s smart,” Kallik said, his tone low, “he’s long gone.”

Tomlin didn’t respond, his gaze still locked on the forest line. Molly barely registered their words. Her fingers moved gently over the fox’s injured leg, her expression softening despite the tension around her. She pressed her hand lightly to the worst of the wounds, her brow furrowing in concentration. No words passed her lips, no glow illuminated the scene, but the ragged flesh beneath her touch began to knit together. The fox let out a soft whimper but stilled, its breathing growing steadier.

Tomlin’s sharp intake of breath broke the moment. “You…you used a h-h-healing spell? On a-an animal?”

Molly blinked, turning her head slightly toward him, but her hand remained on the fox. “It needed help,” she said simply, her voice as cold and firm as she could force it to be.

Tomlin’s face twisted in disbelief, his stuttered words rising with irritation. “A-a-a waste! K-Kallik is hurt. You should have…”

Her eyes snapped to Kallik then, finally noticing the blood staining his tunic and the gash in his shoulder. She should have paid more attention. Kallik gave her a small smile, the corners of his mouth tilting upward despite the strain. “It’s fine. I think.”

Molly hesitated, her hands still for a moment before she motioned for him to come closer. “Let me see,” she murmured, her voice soft but insistent.

Kallik stepped forward, his movements careful. Molly reached up, her fingers trembling slightly as she placed a hand over the wound. She was touching him. Well, she was touching his bloody surcoat. Her eyes darted to his face, watching for any reaction.

Kallik’s expression remained neutral at first, but his brow furrowed slightly as a faint warmth spread through his shoulder. Molly’s lips pressed into a thin line as she concentrated.

When she finally pulled her hand away, Kallik rolled his shoulder, testing the movement. His grin widened as he swung his arm in circles. “That’s amazing,” he said, his voice filled with genuine appreciation. “Thank you, Molly.”

Tomlin, standing a few paces away, scowled, his voice low and muttered. “A-all out of h-healing spells already… W-wonderful.”

Molly glanced at him briefly, her expression unreadable, but she said nothing. She hadn't used her two healing spells yet, that was something different. Kallik’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer, his expression thoughtful. Did he suspect her of something. Of coarse the wizard would be able to recognize a hex over a spell. He didn't anything though.

"Alright." Said Kallik. "Moving on. Molly?"

Molly scooped the fox up into her arms and took lead into the forest.