At dawn, Cliff unfolded the letter from Dawnclaws with trembling fingers. Her beastmaster friend would meet him, it said, and included a talisman—a worn, carved stone marked with the elder beastmaster's emblem, granting him safe passage through the Dalsea Woods. Cliff traced the engraving, feeling the pulse of something ancient in the stone. Determined, he pocketed it and set out.

The forest welcomed him with lush scents of pine and sweet wildflowers. Sunlight filtered through the trees in quiet waves, dappling the mossy floor and painting faint gold streaks on the ferns. Cliff tightened his grip on the talisman as he walked, the air growing thick with magic. Birds fluttered overhead, barely making a sound as they disappeared deeper into the woods. The path led him to clear pools and overrun meadows, the dense canopy shifting to make way, as if the forest itself acknowledged his purpose.

Eventually, he reached a clearing where he was supposed to meet the beastmaster’s student. A young druid named Elara. Cliff found her on the soft, sunlit grass.

Elara stood, her movements quiet but intentional as she knelt beside a creature—a young Silverfang Roc. Its silver feathers shimmered in the sunlight, but its wing lay limp, trembling. The Roc let out a small, pitiful chirp as Elara murmured soothing words, stroking its head. Cliff’s heart lurched. Guilds would have killed the creature without hesitation for its heartstone, yet here was Elara, treating it as if it were kin.

He took a step forward, clearing his throat. “Hello,” he called, forcing confidence into his voice. “I’m—”

In an instant, a net snapped up, yanking him from the ground. Cliff’s stomach flipped as he dangled, trapped. Elara looked up, her eyes narrowing.

“You’re the shopkeeper my sentimental uncle thought to welcome here?” she murmured to the Roc, stroking its feathers. “He’s no threat to you, little one.”

“Wait!” Cliff pleaded, struggling in the net. He held up the letter, the talisman dangling from his hand. “I wanted to help with the Rocs.” He wanted to tell her he wanted to learn how to do things differently.

She studied him, her sharp green eyes brimming with mistrust. “What does a merchant know of caring for magical creatures?” Her voice was edged, each word cutting deeper. She snapped her fingers, and birds swooped down, their beaks tearing the net apart as Cliff fell onto his feet, heart racing.

Elara crossed her arms, her face a storm of skepticism. “You say you’re different. Yet you trade in goods that make prey of magical creatures. You know what these guilds do to Silverfang Rocs? They steal the eggs, kill their parents, all for profit.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Cliff swallowed, trying to meet her gaze. Elara stood poised in the clearing, a striking figure with dark green hair woven through with leaves, catching sunlight like verdant gems. At her waist hung a leather belt, crowded with tiny bottles filled with roots, dried plants, and other herbal trinkets that clinked softly as she moved. Her intense green eyes assessed Cliff with a sharpness beyond her sixteen years, a fierce protector of her woodland home.

“I know. And I’m trying to change that.” He paused, voice softening. “I want to protect them, too.”

Her gaze flickered, but her voice remained stern. “Talk is cheap, merchant. Can you offer anything beyond words?” She gestured to the injured Roc, its golden eyes watching him warily. “It needs herbs I can’t find here—Glowthorn for pain, and white Whispergrass for healing. If you can get those, maybe you’re worth a second chance.”

“I can do that,” he said, a surge of determination steadied him. He knew a group of merchants camped nearby; they might have what he needed. “Glowthorn, I already have in my satchel. But I could get the white Whispergrass. If you let me go.”

Elara tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing as she studied Cliff tangled in her net. Then, with a swift, melodic whistle—sharp at first, then softening like a song—the forest responded. Birds of all shapes and colors emerged from the shadows, darting down from branches and perching on the netting. In a swift, coordinated flurry, they set to work, their beaks delicately tugging and tearing at the fibers. Cliff watched, awestruck, as the net unraveled around him, his gaze meeting the unwavering intensity in Elara’s as she oversaw the operation, her authority clear in the soft whispers and gestures guiding her feathered allies.

Cliff thudded to the ground and dusted himself off. “I… er… need something from you.” Cliff gestured to many ingredients of her waist. “How rare are those and how often do you come by them?” When Elara squinted her eyes, Cliff said, “It’s for trading. There were a couple of other merchants when I passed through the woods–not near here!” He said quickly when the druid opened her mouth. “But they do seem the type to have what you need. I saw an alchemist’s flag in one of their small tents. Maybe he has the white whispergrass you seek. But he won’t part with it easily.”

Elara figured out what Cliff meant. She slowly unfastened one of the roots from her belt and handed it to Cliff. “They are rare to you lot, but common to us. The forest shares her secrets with her worthy friends.”

That’s nice, Cliff thought. “I also need to hear what their properties are.” When Elara finished explaining, Cliff nodded and returned to the thick woods. “I’ll be back.”

Elara barely nodded as he turned, but the challenge in her eyes lingered as he hurried back to the path. The forest was silent now, watching him. He didn’t dare let it down.

Cliff found the campsite just past a line of old pines, where the flickering light of a fire cast shadows over a huddle of traveling merchants. He hesitated, inhaling the smoky air, then stepped into the clearing, steeling himself as their heads turned his way.