Chapter 6: The Hunting Ground

Kael’s limbs ached with exhaustion as he climbed the slope, carrying his precious cargo close against his chest. His pulse thundered in his ears as he moved through the thinning trees and finally found it—a secluded ring of stone formations, a natural shelter hunters used to stash kills during the day. The wide, flat rocks surrounded a shallow depression at the center, obscuring it from view. Here, if nowhere else, he might find a temporary sanctuary. And he would need it; the forest was more alive than ever now, filled with rustling leaves and distant snarls.

He ducked beneath the outer rock and slipped into the center of the stone ring, carefully lowering himself to the ground. Here, at least, he was hidden from sight, sheltered enough to catch his breath. He unslung the eggs from his chest and carefully placed them on a patch of soft moss in the middle of the circle. Then, he settled the serpent scale beside them, the edges of the scale sharp enough to glint in the fading sunlight.

For a moment, Kael allowed himself to simply stare. The two eggs lay side by side, each of them filled with the promise of unimaginable power, yet they looked so still, so fragile in the dimming light, even if the god’s protection made them invulnerable. He wanted to reach out, to run his hand over the smooth surface of each egg, but he stopped himself. His throat was painfully dry, and a dull ache in his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since he’d entered the forest.

“Guess it’s time to forage, then,” he muttered to himself. He cast a last glance at the eggs before turning to the forest beyond the stone ring.

The roots his mother had shown him as a boy would have to do. They were common enough, and with a bit of luck, he’d find a few that would stave off his hunger and thirst. Clenching his jaw, he slipped back into the trees, his eyes darting from the forest floor to the dense foliage around him.

Kael's hands worked quickly, digging at the base of shrubs, pulling up roots and peeling off their skins, examining them for any telltale signs of poison. He tried to remember the feel of his mother’s hands, the patience with which she had pulled each plant from the earth, showing him how to survive even when food was scarce. He missed her in this moment more than he had in years. But he couldn’t dwell on it; survival demanded every ounce of focus he had left.

As he pulled up another root into, he heard it—a faint crunch, the subtle sound of branches snapping underfoot. He froze, listening intently, his fingers instinctively moving to the crossbow at his side. Keep it together, Kael. The sound came again, closer this time, and an unmistakable sound drifted through the air, sharp and piercing. He knew that sound. Wolves.

Without thinking, he abandoned the roots he’d gathered, saw them falling into muddy soil, wincing internally as he shoving himself up a nearby tree. His foot slipped against the damp bark, sending him into a desperate scramble. He clawed his way up, heart racing, until he was perched a good ten feet above the forest floor, holding his breath as he watched the shadows below.

A moment later, they appeared—a pack of massive, twisted wolves, their gray and black fur matted and slick with mud. They moved in a line, sniffing the air with low growls, their eyes glinting in the dimming light. The lead wolf lifted its nose, catching his scent. Kael's breath hitched as the creature’s red eyes turned up toward him, narrowing with a cold, savage intelligence.

One by one, the other wolves moved closer, sniffing at the base of the tree. Their nostrils flared as they scented the roots he’d dropped in the mud, and for a moment, they focused on the food, snapping and snarling at each other as they jostled for a piece.

Kael gripped his crossbow, sweat beading on his brow as he calculated his odds. He’d barely had enough time for his crossbow to gather enough essence for even one shot. Not that it would have mattered if he had enough time. The essence pool made out of Arcanist’s Steel could only hold enough essence for a pair of shot and he knew he couldn’t take on a pack of wolves with a two bolts.

His fingers traced the etchings on the crossbow’s string, his mind cursing his decision to forge it from metal. Should’ve listened to Aria. If he’d chosen something less powerful, something he could string and pull without the need for magic, he’d be able to use a quiver of bolts.

The wolves continued to circle, and Kael’s hand tightened on the crossbow’s handle. He could feel the raw potential humming beneath his fingertips, but he held back. Firing now would do nothing but make him a target. He grit his teeth, swallowing the helplessness clawing up his throat. You can’t fight them, Kael. Not yet.

Minutes stretched on in tense silence as the wolves prowled beneath him, circling his tree and snarling, their glistening eyes never leaving him. It felt like an eternity before, finally, one of them sniffed the air again, huffing as it turned away from the tree. The rest of the pack followed suit, their ears twitching as they stalked back into the underbrush, their figures melting into the shadows.

Kael stayed frozen in place, his fingers trembling around his crossbow as he listened to their footsteps fade into the distance. When he was sure they were gone, he exhaled a slow, shaky breath, feeling his limbs unclench, though his hands still felt numb with tension. He looked down at the muddy patch below, the roots he’d so carefully gathered lying there half-buried, unusable.

The sun had dipped even lower, the sky above gaining streaks of bruised purple as twilight threatened to descend over the forest. You’re wasting time. He needed water, but there was no point in searching for more roots; the wolves had likely trampled any he might have salvaged. He would have to find a stream if he wanted to quench his thirst and wash what little he had left.

Quietly, he slipped down from the tree, his steps cautious as he scanned the shadows, checking for any sign of the wolves. The forest seemed still, but he moved carefully, slipping between the trees, his eyes and ears alert for any movement. His heart hammered as he crept through the dense underbrush, the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves filling his nose.

The search dragged on, the forest growing darker by the second. Every branch that snapped beneath his feet, every rustle of leaves seemed to echo like a warning. Kael’s throat felt like sandpaper, and his stomach tightened, both from hunger and from the constant threat of being hunted himself. He tightened his grip on his crossbow, reassuring himself with its weight, even if he could barely use it. If he could find a stream, he could make it through the night, but only if he kept his wits about him.

Finally, he heard it—a faint trickling, like a whisper through the silence. He followed the sound, weaving between trees until he reached a narrow, shallow stream cutting through the undergrowth. The water was dark but clear enough that he could see the glint of stones at the bottom. Relief washed over him as he knelt at the edge, cupping his hands and scooping up the water, letting it flow over his parched throat.

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The chill of the water sharpened his senses, grounding him as he drank. Once he’d had his fill, he splashed his face, letting the coolness ease some of the exhaustion clinging to his bones. He gathered the small bundle of muddy roots, rinsing them in the stream before he bit down on one, chewing through its bitterness. It was little more than a mouthful, but it would keep him going for a while longer.

As he crouched there, Kael allowed himself a single moment of reprieve, the day’s events threatened to overwhelm him. Not time or the place. He thought, pushing through his emotions as they clawed at him, trying to pull him under.

Eventually, they stopped clawing, let Kael go but they still sat on shoulders, weighing down every step he took towards his spot.

Kael moved through the forest in the encroaching twilight, carrying his bundle of damp roots and feeling the weight of exhaustion seeping into his bones. The sky had nearly swallowed the last threads of daylight, leaving only a soft, ghostly glow. As he approached the stone ring, he made a mental note to gather wood. He'd need a fire tonight—to keep himself warm, to keep the wolves away, and perhaps, just perhaps, to ward off the hollow ache gnawing at him from the inside out.

He scavenged for branches, working by the faint light cast by tiny, bioluminescent insects that floated lazily around him. Their soft glow illuminated his path in the darkness, and he was thankful for it; moving by touch alone was a fool’s risk. Eventually, he stumbled across a rock as large as his fist, its edges sharpened and worn by years exposed to the elements. He gripped it, imagining the runes he would etch tonight. But first—the fire.

Kael returned to the ring, laying down the wood and arranging it with practiced movements, then coaxed a small spark from flint he'd scavenged weeks earlier. Flames flickered to life, casting a dim orange glow over the stones, the eggs, and the serpent scale beside them.

Kael knelt beside the fire, staring down at the roots he’d gathered, his stomach twisting with hunger but tightening in disgust as he forced himself to chew them. They tasted like bitter earth, and the roots’ acrid flavor stung his tongue.

Several times, his stomach lurched, threatening to empty what little he’d managed to force down, but he pushed through, focusing on survival over the revolt in his gut. Each root was survival, a taste of defiance against the gnawing emptiness.

So he forced it down, his throat convulsing as his stomach rebelled, but he knew he needed strength—no matter how vile the meal. With the roots barely settling, he grabbed the stone he’d found and turned to the scale lying beside him, feeling the weight of exhaustion in his limbs. Yet beneath the exhaustion, there was a glimmer of purpose.

Gingerly, he held the scale in his lap, examining its texture under the wavering firelight. He’d seen dragon scale only once, a memory that now seemed hazy and distant. This serpent scale wasn’t as vibrant, but it was tough, dense—there was power locked within it. He gripped the stone tighter, imagining the runes he would etch tonight and what this scale might hold. His fingers traced a tentative line across its rough surface, planning each stroke, each curve.

The first rune he needed was the anchor—a spiral shape with three rings embedded in a V, a basic conduit. It would tap into the scale’s essence pool, drawing only what energy he needed, but nothing more. Efficiency would be his limit; if he could carve the rune with enough precision, it might draw around 20% of the scale’s essence. Any higher was impossible with this makeshift tool, but that would have to be enough.

He pressed the sharp edge of the rock to the scale and dragged it in a small, controlled arc, his hand moving with practiced concentration. Each line, each curve, mattered. The rune began to take shape, a slow dance of spirals and rings as he scratched deeper, glancing frequently to ensure every line aligned just right. Even the faintest mistake could lead to a weak rune, or worse—a failure. He focused, his breathing slow and shallow, his hand steady. Hours passed, each scrape of the stone against the scale wearing down both rock and strength.

When he finished, Kael straightened his back, muscles aching but the first rune complete. He brushed the excess dust from the surface, his eyes scanning his handiwork. The lines were deep and precise, the spiral catching the firelight in its grooves. A faint hum seemed to reverberate from the scale, a promising sign. He exhaled a quiet breath of relief. He’d achieved something—some foothold of control in this cursed night.

Now, he began on the second rune. It was the Restore rune, the lifeline that would ensure the scale reverted to a protected state. He etched each bewildering line and curve with as much care as he had the first, though he couldn’t understand their purpose. The texts in Greenhaven’s library had only shown the most basic runes, with no explanation of their complexities. His father had called the books “scribbles for fools” but Kael had read them anyway, hoping to find something useful. As he carved, his mind wandered back to those nights spent poring over the library’s dimly lit pages, Aria by his side, laughing at some of his frustrated groans as she practiced her sword forms.

After what felt like an eternity, the final stroke of the rune was done. Kael felt the pull of sleep, but he wouldn’t stop now. He grabbed his belt and placed it beneath the scale, positioning it with a strange, hopeful excitement. If the Restore rune worked, it might even consider the belt a part of the scale’s structure, preserving it through a strike. But he doubted he’d be so lucky. Tomorrow, he’d tie the scale to his chest, even if it would barely last against a true assault. Still, it was something, a barrier between him and a world set on his destruction.

His excitement faded as he arranged his supplies by the fire, the full weight of the day crashing back over him. He sat heavily, feeling the cold seep into his bones, his chest aching with an exhaustion that wasn’t physical. It had been waiting for him, this heavy wave of grief and guilt, and now it surged, unstoppable.

His fists clenched as images flashed in his mind—of Greenhaven, the city walls crumbling beneath black smoke, the crackling fires that had leaped through houses and marketplaces. He thought of Aria, of the middled couple that run the library, of the old baker whose crooked smile had greeted him each morning. They were gone, all of them. He bit back a sob, but it clawed its way up, tearing from his throat in a raw, unsteady gasp.

The firelight blurred as he let the tears fall, his shoulders shaking under the weight he’d forced himself to bear all day. Greenhaven had burned. He had wanted it gone, had felt a traitorous flicker of relief as he watched it crumble. And then, as he’d realized what that meant—for the people who’d shaped his life, for his mother, and for every memory he clung to—that relief had turned bitter, filling him with a grief so deep it felt like a blade in his chest.

“Why?” he whispered, his voice cracked and broken. “Why did it have to be like this?”

But there was no answer in the night, only the distant rustle of the trees and the faint crackling of the fire. He hugged his knees to his chest, feeling as though the forest itself pressed down on him, pushing him into the earth. His father’s face flitted before him, the man’s stern eyes and rough hands, and the anger welled up anew. His father had always believed the world was broken beyond repair, a place where survival was all that mattered. And he’d taught Kael to survive, even if that meant leaving scars on his back and heart alike. Kael had resented him for that, had hated him for the pain and the unforgiving lessons. But his father was gone—the last piece of family he’d had. And now… now he was alone.

The unfairness of it all struck him with a fresh wave of anger, and he choked out a hoarse scream, letting his fury and sorrow pour out into the darkness. It wasn’t just his grief—it was a hatred of the world that took and took, that demanded everything and left him with nothing but memories and scars. His screams faded, replaced by wracking sobs that tore through him, leaving him breathless, empty.

When his strength finally left him, Kael collapsed beside the fire, curling into himself, his cheek resting against the cold surface of the scale he’d worked so hard to carve. The runes he’d etched offered no comfort, no promise of protection that could soothe the aching void in his chest. He closed his eyes, feeling the tears seep into the dirt beneath him, and surrendered to the night, letting sleep claim him as his heart lay heavy with grief, his broken whispers filling the silence:

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”