Chapter 12: Low on the Chain

  Morning light didn’t make the forest safer. It only made the danger visible.

  Laurent sat on a fallen log, the thin herb manual resting across his knees. The book was old, its pages softened by repeated use, margins crowded with cramped notes left by hands far more practiced than his. It wasn’t written for beginners.

  Do not pull, the instruction read, underlined twice.

  Below it, a rough diagram traced a plant’s root system—where essence gathered, where growth regenerated, and where careless hands could kill future yield.

  Laurent swallowed and reread the section, then again. He practiced the motion in the air first: cut angle, twist, lift only enough to free the essence vein.

  “If I ruin this,” he muttered, “I don’t eat.”

  He closed the book carefully and knelt.

  He moved deliberately, scanning the ground as the manual instructed—leaf shape, stem angle, subtle discolorations signaling essence saturation. Every movement was measured. He forced himself to focus on the task, not the imagination that tried to fill the silence. Fear grew teeth when left idle. This was work. Treat it like work.

  The first herbs were common—low-grade, more useful for training his hands than earning coin. He followed each step carefully: cut here, twist there, leave the root node intact. It took longer than he expected. Everything did. By midday, he’d gathered enough to justify the trip. Not impressive. Not worthless.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  He stood to stretch when something moved at the edge of the clearing.

  Small. Gray-brown. Long ears. A rabbit-like creature froze at the sight of him. Knee-high, lean, muscles visible beneath coarse fur. Its dark eyes were alert, its body coiled, ready to flee.

  Laurent stepped closer, reaching out slowly, carefully.

  The creature flinched.

  Not backward—forward.

  Its body jerked as if struck by invisible force, hind legs snapping tight beneath it in raw instinct. Its ears flattened. Its eyes widened. There was no warning growl, no threat display—only the sudden, violent decision of something that refused to be caught.

  Laurent’s hand was still mid-reach when it moved.

  The creature kicked.

  There was no warning sound. No hiss. No growl.

  Just impact.

  A blur of fur and bone crossed the space between them in less than a blink. The world snapped sideways.

  Pain exploded across his ribs as something slammed into him with shocking force. He was thrown sideways, breath ripped from his lungs as he hit the ground.

  For a moment, the world narrowed to ringing ears and the violent certainty that he could not inhale. By the time he drew air back into his chest, the creature had vanished.

  Leaves drifted down in slow spirals. His ears rang. The forest did not react—no alarm, no chase, no follow-up. It had corrected him and moved on.

  Laurent lay staring up through the leaves, heart hammering. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, wincing as his side protested. No broken bones. Just bruised.

  Cute, his mind supplied automatically. A prey animal, low on the food chain.

  He stared at the place where it had vanished and felt something sharper than pain settle in his chest.

  It wasn’t fear. It was something uglier.

  The creature hadn’t even meant to hurt him.

  It had simply refused to be touched.

  Laurent stayed on the ground a moment longer, then sat up without commentary.

  He didn’t reach for anything again that day.

  That night, beneath unfamiliar stars, Laurent slept light and uneasy. Strength here was not exceptional—it was baseline. Survival belonged to those who learned it fast.