Dawn spilled pale and gold through the high leaves, brushing dew from the canopy. The little shelter Thorn had shaped with the hammocks creaked softly in the morning breeze. The forest whispered awake—birdsong threading the hush, branches sighing as light touched them.
Thorn was first to move, unweaving the living roots that had cradled them through the night. He dropped to the forest floor with the weightless certainty of someone born to the wild. Vasha followed with an easy leap, bow already in hand. Suraia climbed down last, clinging to the vines until Thorn steadied her. She ducked her head in thanks, cheeks coloured, and brushed pine needles from the large black cloak which she carefully removed, folded, and offered back to Thorn. The Ee’dornil accepted it without question, tucking it underneath his pelt.
They set out along a deer trail, the hush of the trading post long gone behind them. They found ripe fruit in the bushes—blueberries—and ate them before drinking from a stream. The air was cool, the ground still damp from the night. For a time, all was ordinary—until Thorn’s head jerked suddenly to one side. He raised a hand in warning. The human woman and the Oakhai stopped in their tracks, nearly holding their breath.
The sound reached them a moment later: crashing, tearing, the thunder of hooves. Branches snapped like kindling.
“Boar,” Thorn growled, already sprinting.
Vasha swore under her breath and darted after him, fox tail streaming behind. Suraia stumbled to follow, but the forest clutched at her skirts and slowed her steps. Ahead, the crashing tore through the trees, a madness bearing down on anything in its path.
The trees broke, spilling them onto farmland. A goat pen splintered as a huge, foam-flecked boar tore through, eyes rolled white, tusks gleaming wet. A farmer turned too late—screams split the air as the beast gored his arm and flung him into the dirt.
Thorn struck like a storm. Roots burst from the earth, coiling about the boar’s legs, dragging it down. He braced a massive hand against its bristled hide, murmuring guttural words in the tongue of beasts. For a moment the animal stilled—but then it shrieked and thrashed, maddened beyond reach.
“It will not be calmed,” Thorn growled. His grip tightened, roots straining as the boar heaved against them. Foam frothed at its jaws, eyes glassy with frenzy.
“Let me try,” Vasha called, already sliding an arrow from her quiver. Her ears pricked forward, white with blue tips catching the sun, her tail stiff with tension. She edged closer with one hand lifted, her voice low and coaxing.
“Easy, big guy,” she murmured. Her voice was soft, coaxing. Step by step she closed the gap. For a heartbeat the boar’s ears flicked, as though some thread of her voice reached it.
Then, with a savage roar, the beast tore free of Thorn’s roots. The sudden wrench threw Vasha back a pace. The boar wheeled, foam spraying, tusks catching the light as it charged straight for another farmer scrambling from the barn.
Vasha’s bow snapped up. The arrow flew almost without thought, striking deep just behind the boar’s shoulder. The beast staggered, legs buckling. With a final convulsion it crashed to the dirt, the earth trembling under its bulk.
Silence fell, broken only by the farmer’s ragged breathing and the low moan of the wounded man on the ground.
Villagers poured from doorways and rows of crops, wide-eyed and murmuring, gathering in a hesitant circle. Thorn stood over the fallen boar, his jaw hard, while Vasha lowered her bow with a sharp exhale. The Ee’dornil and the Oakhai began examining the fallen beast.
Only then did Suraia burst from the tree line, skirts snagged with twigs, breath tearing in her chest. She froze at the sight of the crowd, the wounded man, the fallen beast. She reached the farmyard, breathless, curls sticking to her damp cheeks. Her eyes flew back to the wounded farmer.
He clutched his ruined arm, blood soaking the soil. Villagers rushed from the fields, fear thick in the air.
Suraia dropped to her knees at the man’s side. “Hold still… please,” she whispered. Her hand pressed over the wound, and light bloomed white with a blue hue between her fingers. The bleeding slowed, flesh knitting. The man gasped, staring in disbelief as torn muscle became freshly healed flesh.
When the red headed woman drew back, trembling, the crowd had fallen silent. Too silent. Dozens of eyes fixed on her; some quickly looked away the moment her gaze lifted. A woman spat on the ground. Others exchanged uneasy glances.
“She healed me,” the farmer said hoarsely, flexing his arm. He looked at Suraia in awe, but his words did little to soften the suspicion lingering in the faces around them.
Before Suraia could shrink further into herself, Christopher Cooper Crooby suddenly appeared and pushed through the gathering. He tucked his helm under his arm, sandy hair in disarray, breath quick from a half-run. “What happened here?” he demanded, eyes flicking from the bloodstained soil to the toppled beast.
Relieved to be given something else to fixate on, the villagers turned from Suraia to the carcass of the boar. As the press of bodies shifted, she found herself left standing apart, the circle of attention broken around her. One woman muttered a protective prayer under her breath before turning her back, another man spitting into the dirt as though to ward off ill luck.
Christopher ignored the whispers. He saw Thorn standing unhooded among the villagers, Vasha at his side with bow still in hand. His brow furrowed. “Report. What did you find?”
Thorn gestured towards the fallen boar. “It was crazed. Its mind clouded. We tracked it and caught it here.”
Vasha added, her voice sharp with lingering adrenaline, “It would have killed more if we hadn’t stopped it.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. “Can we still eat it?” one farmer asked nervously.
“No,” Thorn said, voice like a struck stone. His glowing eyes swept the gathering. “Its flesh is fouled. You will sicken if you eat it.”
The murmurs rose again, but this time about the carcass, not Suraia. She remained at the edge, clutching her bag to her chest, the unease still heavy on her shoulders.
The crowd muttered and shifted, some backing away from the carcass, others already debating in low voices what Thorn’s warning meant for their larders.
It was then a young farmhand appeared, clutching a cloth bundle and a small vial in his hands. He ducked past the older men, cheeks red but eyes shining as he made his way to Suraia. “For you,” he said, holding them out to her. “Cheese and oil. It is not much, but you saved my uncle’s life. Please… take it.”
The curly-haired woman blinked, startled. She accepted the gifts with both hands as though they were treasure, her voice quiet. “Thank you.”
The boy gave her an earnest nod before hurrying back to the others, leaving her clutching the offerings against her chest, colour high in her freckled cheeks.
Christopher’s voice cut through the murmurs. “All of you—back to your fields. Leave the carcass. It is not safe.” His tone carried enough authority that even the grumblers obeyed. He cast a pointed look at the ruined goat pen. “Lord Harren will want these farms in working order. His table does not go empty.”
There were reluctant nods, a few sharp looks at Suraia before they turned away, muttering.
Once the crowd had dispersed, Christopher crossed the yard to where Suraia stood. Thorn and Vasha followed. His expression was grim. “Walk with me,” he said quietly. The Xaverion guard led them a short distance from the farmhouse, far enough that curious ears would not overhear.
When they stopped, Christopher looked directly at Thorn. “Young Lord Harren has made his intentions clear. He means to form a hunting party—he says he will have the wolf’s head mounted on his wall before the week is out.”
Thorn scoffed but did not speak at once. His light-green eyes glowed faintly beneath the shadow of his brow. “A boy’s boast. But a boast that will wound the forest nonetheless.”
Vasha’s ears flattened, her tail lashing. “He is a fool,” she snapped. “Chasing glory with men who can’t tell tracks from tree-roots.”
Christopher’s mouth thinned, but he did not disagree. “That may be, but fools with crossbows can still kill. He has men willing to follow him—hunters, a few sell swords, and worse, a crowd eager to watch. I thought you should know.”
Suraia hugged her bag to her chest, voice hesitant. “If... if they find the wolf—if they see it.”
“They will see a beast,” Thorn said evenly, “and nothing more.”
Christopher shifted uneasily. “And if they lose bolts into every shadow they fancy holds a wolf’s shape? The woods will run red with more than boar.” He glanced back towards the farm, lowered his voice. “They are already restless. Your healing unsettles them, miss. Word will spread faster than fire.”
Colour rose in Suraia’s freckled cheeks. She ducked her head, curls falling forward to hide her eyes.
Vasha bristled, stepping half a pace in front of her. “She saved a man’s life. If they fear her for it, that is their shame, not hers.”
Christopher met the Oakhai’s glare, then inclined his head slightly. “I did not say it was right. Only that it is.” His voice softened a fraction as he turned back to Suraia. “Don’t think all will turn their backs. Some will remember who held their kin together when steel could not.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled by the creak of branches and the murmur of the distant farm.
Thorn’s jaw tightened. “A party blundering through the woods will disturb more than beasts. It will drive whatever is causing this sickness deeper.”
Christopher spread his hands helplessly. “I thought you should know. I’ll do what I can, but… my hands are tied. Lord Harren’s word outweighs mine, and he is spoiling for a hunt.”
Vasha muttered darkly, “Then let him trip into a briar patch and hunt his pride there.”
A faint smile ghosted across Christopher’s face before it faded again. “If only it were that easy.” He looked back to Thorn, sober. “You have my respect, master Druid. Keep your heads low, for your sake—and mine.”
Thorn gave a slow nod, the faintest sign of respect returned. “You have done enough. Thank you.”
“Now if you’ll excuse me. I have a boar to dispose of before someone decides to ignore your warning and eat it still.” Christopher bowed his head. “Master Thornwing. Ladies.”
By the time they left the farm behind, the sun was already leaning west. Shadows stretched longer across the undergrowth as they pressed deeper into the forest. The hush between trees felt heavier than before.