Luc's lungs burned as he tore through the undergrowth, brambles slashing at his arms and legs. Every breath felt razor-sharp in his chest, but he forced himself to keep moving. Behind him, the thunder of Owlbear claws and the crack of twigs heralded a pursuit that showed no mercy.
He dared a backward glance: mottled fur and clawed paws closing fast, goblin riders weaving between trees, orcish roars echoing like distant thunder. His heart hammered a savage rhythm: move, move, MOVE.
He remembered Rorik's warning: know when not to swing. But this was no moment for finesse. This was survival. He didn't look back—never again. Not until he'd found safety.
Luc's foot snagged on a hidden root—he pitched forward, arm slicing through brambles. He hesitated—a flicker of panic freezing his legs—then forced himself down. Moss scraped his palms and rocks bit into his knees as he dropped beneath the wolf's barreling flank. Each rasping breath came jagged and loud. He spat out a mouthful of dirt, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might burst. He could feel the Mana settling in his bones, a faint warmth swirling under his skin. His pulse slowed, and that dull ache at his shoulders eased just enough for him to take another breath. He pushed deeper into the green gloom, where shafts of pale light danced between leaves, guiding him onward.
Moments later, a guttural roar tore through the undergrowth to his right. An Owlbear—massive, fur bristling, claws gouging at the earth—charged into the clearing where Luc had been seconds before. The beast's amber eyes locked onto him. Luc dove sideways into a tangle of ferns as its talons raked the ground where he'd stood. Dirt and leaves showered over him; his body pressed flat against the cool softness of the forest floor. His heart feared it would betray him to his predator.
Stay silent. Stay still, he told himself, every nerve taut. Through the rustle of ferns he heard the Owlbear roar in frustration, its paws stamping. Luc's hand crept toward his sword's hilt—too slow. He reminded himself that stealth, not steel, would save him now. Slowly, he crawled backward, ferns brushing against his cheek, until he could pick out a narrow ravine half-hidden beyond a cluster of birch trees.
As the Owlbear's roars faded, Luc pushed through the ferns and plunged into a narrow ravine. Cool spray from a hidden spring kissed his cheeks, slicking the mossy walls. He yanked down a sturdy vine—its twisty grip biting into his palms—and swung himself over jagged stones into the icy stream below.
He ducked behind a jagged boulder that jutted from the stream bed. Over the rushing water he heard crashing branches and guttural shouts—it wasn't over. He peered around the stone: two goblin riders on wolfback thundered past on the trail above. Their eyes scanned left and right; Luc pressed himself flat, willing himself invisible. A goblin's crude spear slammed into the rock beside his head, splintering it and sending shards of stone pinging across his helmet.
When the riders vanished, a sudden warmth curled around him, like the forest itself had exhaled. He felt the prickling buzz fade from the air—whatever it was that chased him had less to grab onto now. The faint warmth soothed his bruised ribs. He exhaled—steady now—and hauled himself up the ravine's opposite side, vines cutting into his palms.
He staggered into a hush-filled glade carpeted in velvet moss; the scent of pine resin hung thick in the air as he sank down, each breath tasting of cool earth. A gentle warmth trickled through each scrape and bruise, and he felt a lightness return to his limbs.
Moonlight filtered through the canopy, casting lace-like shadows as Luc closed his eyes and let the forest's Mana stitch him back together. He was no longer sure how long he'd been running, but his legs felt like lead. Behind him, the forest's roar had dimmed to a far-off din. After a cautious look—only the shifting shapes of goblin scouts—Luc ducked under trailing vines and found himself atop a sheer drop. Drip-drip-drip echoed off the moss-velvet walls as Luc crouched under the vines and peered into the drop. He found a slim ledge, tested it with a toe—and then hand over hand, foot over foot, he descended into shadow.
His palms burned, calves trembled, but he mouthed Rorik's lesson: strength isn't about swingin' a sword—it's knowing your limits and pushing beyond them. Halfway down, the ledge trembled beneath his weight, but it held. Luc inched past the wobbling rock and pressed on.
A piercing goblin cry split the air above and Luc froze, heart pounding. A stone dislodged somewhere above, thundered past his head, and clattered down into the black water below. Luc slipped, catching himself with a gasping grab. He forced himself to steady his breathing—and slid the last few feet, dropping lightly onto a jutting shelf near the stream's source.
Beyond the gorge lay a stand of pines, their needles forming a thick carpet. Luc sprinted from shadow to shadow, back into moonlit clearings, then into darkness again.
By dawn, the eastern sky blushed faintly, and Day 4's pale light brushed the treetops as Luc crested the rise.
He staggered up a soft rise and paused at the meadow's edge. Pale light filtered through the mist, frosting each petal in crystalline white. The only sound was the faint crackle of frost underfoot—no beast, no goblin, just the hush of a new day.
He was nearing the forest's exit. At the meadow's edge stood a stump of an ancient tree, half-cumbled wooden chairs, etched with ancient patterns. Luc blinked, wonder momentarily replacing fear. Could this have been a place of shelter? Ancient crafts often ward off malign spirits. He stepped closer, his heart calmed, mind refreshed, as if an ancient power, and an unknown connection was at work.
As he closed in on the tree stump, Luc spotted a lone goblin rider reining in its wolf on the far tree line—spear leveled, eyes narrowed. His pulse thundered: no more room for hiding. He raised his sword not to flee, but to stand. "I'm done running," he whispered. "Time to go home."
The wolf lunged and Luc met its charge with a burst of speed. Each step ate up the distance until hooves pounded at his heels and the goblin's spear gleamed.
At the wolf's coiled leap, the rider thrust its spear in one seamless motion—but Luc saw the weight shift. He dropped low and slid beneath the airborne beast.
With every ounce of resolve, Luc hauled himself upright—muscles quivering under the strain. He gripped the hilt with shaking hands and thrust the blade forward. It bit deep, sending a gout of warm blood spraying across his arm and the grass.
He staggered back, knees shaking, chest heaving, he thought he might black out. He blinked through a haze of sweat and wolf's blood, mind reeling at the animal's dying wail.
The fallen wolf pitched forward, flinging its rider free. The goblin scrambled up, a snarl of rage and disbelief, twisting its face as it raised its spear.
Luc barely registered the goblin's furious cry before its spear flew. His arms shook so badly he momentarily lost his grip—steel rang against wood as he slapped the haft onto the flat of his blade. Pain jolted up his wrists from the impact. Summoning every shred of will, he yanked the spear sideways. The goblin stumbled forward, allowing Luc to pivot on shaking feet and slice under its chin.
The head toppled with a sickening thud. Luc's vision blurred. He dropped the sword for a heartbeat, fingers brushing cold grass, before forcing himself upright.
Luc dropped to one knee. His sword slipped from numb fingers. His whole body quivered. He wasn't sure if he was crying or if it was just sweat and blood and exhaustion blurring his vision. His breath rasped in his ears, like wind through broken glass. His hand pressed to his side—slick with blood, not all of it the wolf's.
"I… survived," he rasped, barely audible. The words hung in the air, absurd and sacred. He half-laughed, half-sobbed—because it didn't feel real. Not yet.
He wiped wolf's blood from his blade, squared his shoulders against the dawn, and made his way toward the forest's edge. Minor scratches trailed along his arms and legs; the deeper ones had already begun to knit closed.
That night, under a canopy of stars, Luc pressed on through shadowed pines, every footstep reminding him the forest still hunted him.
—
As the sun dipped a second time, Luc staggered toward Greenwood's stone gates, scraped and sore, the taste of blood still on his tongue. Just as the forest path gave way to worn cobble roads, two figures stepped into his path.
He knew them at once.
"Well, well," drawled the shorter one, a snide glint in his eye. "If it isn't our little crestless crow come crawling back." Tomm—short, sharp-tongued, and full of venom—grinned beneath his helm. "Didn't think you'd survive the woods, SteelHart."
Bran, the taller guard with the cruel smile, folded his arms and stepped closer. "Look at that, Tomm. Boy traded shame for steel." His eyes landed on the sword slung over Luc's back. "That blade's worth more than his name now."
Luc stopped just short of them. "I've earned an F-class mercenary badge. Registered. That covers—"
"Don't care if you've got a writ signed by the Queen's left tit," Tomm cut in. "You want in? Five silvers—and hand over the sword."
Luc's hand twitched toward the hilt. The last time he faced these two, he'd been mocked, overcharged, and stripped of dignity. This time he had something to lose.
Bran stepped behind him, voice a slow, coiled sneer. "Careful, boy. You may've limped out of the woods, but we've broken better than you at the gates."
A deep, grating voice rumbled behind Tomm.
"There ya are, lad. Took yer sweet time. I said three days—what's this, your fifth sunset? Thought ya were dead."
Luc looked in disbelief. "Rorik…?"
Tomm spun with a scowl, which instantly cracked. "Y-you again—?"
The dwarf marched forward, arms crossed over his barrel chest. "This whelp belongs to Viola now. And she had me keep tabs on 'im. I don't take kindly to gutter-scum extorting my charge."
Bran visibly stiffened. "V-Viola? As in Mistress Viola, from the guild?" His voice lost its smug edge.
Rorik spat at the dirt near Tomm's boot. "The very one. Try that noble act with that hag, and you'll find yer tongues on the guild's floor. Now crawl back to yer shadows."
Tomm looked like he'd swallowed a nail. "Right. Right then. Go on, brat. And… keep the sword. Wouldn't want a… misunderstanding."
Rorik grunted and threw a heavy arm around Luc's shoulder, steering him through the gate.
"C'mon, lad. Tell me what ya found in the wild. How did the quest go? If it's just blisters and wolf turds, I'll tan yer hide."
Snap.
A twig cracked beyond the treeline.
Luc stiffened.
Something had followed him.