Chapter 13: What Doesn’t Die

  The bruise along Laurent’s ribs had bloomed ugly by morning—deep purple, tender, impossible to ignore. Every breath reminded him of the kick, of how easily curiosity had turned into pain. He didn’t complain. Complaining didn’t gather herbs. He adjusted how he moved instead—smaller steps, longer pauses, more listening than looking. The forest wasn’t hostile by default. It was indifferent.

  Laurent moved carefully through the undergrowth, crouching when needed, shifting his weight before each step. His eyes stayed on the ground in front of him, hands steady as he parted leaves and stems. He learned to spot growth patterns instead of individual plants, to read where herbs preferred to exist rather than searching blindly—leaf serrations, sap color, the faint warmth that told him when a plant reacted to touch. It worked.

  By midmorning, his bundle had grown heavier—and not just with common stock. One find, a pale, fibrous stem with faint blue veining, earned a slow smile. It wasn’t rare, but it was valued, useful to alchemists, and easy to ruin if mishandled. Laurent took his time. He cut cleanly, eased the root node free just enough to harvest without killing the plant, then pressed the soil back into place. The book said regrowth would take weeks. That was fine. Weeks meant return.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  A low sound rolled through the trees shortly after. It wasn’t loud, sudden, or careless—but it carried weight. Laurent froze, lowering himself behind a fallen log, heart pounding.

  The sound came again—snorting, breath forced through something massive. He didn’t see it. He didn’t need to. Boar-class. Broad body, dense muscle, territorial. The book had a sketch.

  Laurent stayed perfectly still until his legs trembled. He didn’t reach for a tool. He didn’t consider running. He let the forest forget him. Eventually, the sound faded. Only then did he move.

  Two days later, when he returned to the collection point, he was sore, tired, hungry—and carrying more coin than he had ever earned in a single stretch. It wasn’t wealth. But it was enough. Enough to breathe.

  That night, beneath the trees, counting stars instead of money, Laurent noticed something else.

  He pressed against the bruise experimentally.

  It should have hurt more.

  It didn’t.

  He withdrew his hand and said nothing.

  Some things were safer left unexamined.

  For now, he slept. The forest shifted around him, alive and uncaring—but for the first time since leaving the walls, Laurent felt like he might survive it.