The high sun filtered through a dense canopy of blood-red leaves, casting a diffuse, crimson-rose glow across the forest floor.

  Trenn sat on the smooth, silver bark of a fallen sequoia branch, methodically disassembling the heavy flintlock pistol Janaree had given him. He laid each component on the log with slow, deliberate movements. The solid weight of the metal parts, the precise fit of spring and screw—each piece was a fixed point that held his thoughts steady.

  Beside him, Skate rested, a silent obsidian sphere. In the distance, the gruff voices of the Wolf Kin tending their wounded carried faintly through the air.

  Three of the younger ones—the "pups"—detached from the main group. They navigated the knee-high, thorny ferns in a wide, circling pattern, their approach cautious and indirect. The dark-grey one, Yetran, led them, his chest puffed out and his stride deliberately long.

  A chaotic mix of emotions rolled off their tethers. A boastful pride radiated from Yetran.

  The russet-furred female, Arenlys, hung back, her amber eyes tracking the methodical movements of Trenn's hands on the pistol parts. A flicker of analytical curiosity pulsed from her tether, a sharp contrast to Yetran's simple arrogance.

  The third, a smaller male with tan fur, remained almost entirely behind Yetran's bulk, peeking around his hip. His tether was a discordant thrum of anxiety.

  "Wutren's arm... the pain will plague him for a moon cycle. Your fox-friend was on her feet in hours after the god-fight. The gnome’s crushed legs are almost fully healed…” started Yetran.

  “Vavnaar's pride will not let him ask for aid from a... piggy,” said Arenlys with shame. “The old-ones, they grew in Wolf Kin lands, but we see how the world is. We believe everyone has something to offer.”

  Trenn set a small, intricate spring on the log. He met Yetran’s gaze, the pup’s pride, a defiant wave he could feel through the tether. “I won’t make it for you,” Trenn stated, his voice even. “I will teach you how to make it yourselves. Wutren will need more than one.”

  The competitive energy in their tethers instantly soured, replaced by a surge of indignant pride from Yetran. The russet-furred female, Arenlys, crossed her arms, her expression hardening.

  “We are hunters,” Yetran grunted, his chest puffing out again. “Not gardeners. Point us to the plants. We will bring them.”

  Trenn felt the dismissal in the pup’s thoughts, the deeply ingrained belief that this task was beneath him.

  It was the same look he had gotten from a hundred arrogant swimming students who thought the warm-up drills were beneath them. His first instinct was to meet their pride with his own authority, but his training took over.

  “Find the common ground,” a professor’s voice echoed in his memory. “Reframe the task in a language they respect.”

  The frustration in his gut cooled, replaced by the calm, analytical focus of a coach assessing his players.

  He shook his head slowly. “A clumsy hunter ruins the kill. The same is true here. The forest is not a larder you raid. It is a living thing. Its power must be hunted with precision, or it becomes useless.”

  He saw the argument land. The indignation in Yetran’s tether lessened, replaced by a flicker of grudging curiosity.

  A hunter’s logic, reframed.

  Trenn gestured with his head to the space on the log beside him.

  “Sit,” he said again, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Learn to hunt properly.”

  The three Wolf Kin exchanged a look, a silent, lupine debate passing between them. With a heavy sigh that was pure adolescent drama, Yetran finally moved, dropping onto the log with a deliberate thud.

  The other two followed, their posture stiff, their caution a palpable current. Trenn retrieved his worn, leather-bound alchemy book and opened it to a chapter on basic restoratives. He turned the book so they could see the detailed botanical drawings.

  He tapped a finger on the first illustration. "This first," he said, his voice even and measured. "It grows on the shaded north side of the sequoias. See the way it catches the light?"

  He indicated a colossal, silver-barked tree nearby, where a patch of moss shimmered with a distinct silvery sheen against the dark bark. "It's the binding agent."

  His finger moved to the next drawing, then gestured to the thorny ferns at their feet. "These ferns. The spores are on the underside of the leaves. They're a powerful coagulant. But they're only potent when they're ripe—the color of dark amber."

  He showed them the final drawing, a small, delicate, bell-shaped flower. "This is the active ingredient. The catalyst. It has to be this specific flower, Crimson Bell. It grows low to the ground, always in the shadow of a sequoia root. It's the same color as the leaves above us, so it's easy to miss."

  He closed the book. "Bring me back three perfect specimens of each. Precision, not speed, is the mark of a true hunter."

  The warning was lost on them. With a playful shove and a yip, they bounded into the crimson-lit forest, a pack on a new kind of hunt.

  Trenn slowly began to reassemble his pistol, his movements once again calm and methodical. He had just fitted the trigger assembly back into the frame when they returned, crashing through the ferns with the triumphant swagger of a successful hunt.

  A wave of immense pride rolled off their tethers as Yetran thrust a flower forward. A huge clump of dark earth was still attached to its mangled roots. "First kill," the pup boasted. Arenlys, not to be outdone, presented a handful of Silvervein Moss she had clearly ripped from a tree in one aggressive pull.

  Trenn’s own hands stilled. He felt the pup’s pride curdle into a defensive bristle as he remained silent. He took the flower from Yetran’s grasp, his expression patient. He gently brushed the dirt away with his thumb, revealing the bruised, darkened edges of the petals.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “This is not a kill,” Trenn said, his voice quiet but firm. “This is a mess.”

  He felt a spike of anger from Yetran through the tether.

  “It’s just a flower,” the pup growled, his lips peeling back from his teeth.

  “No,” Trenn countered, his gaze unwavering. “You murdered an entire plant for a single part of it, and you did it so clumsily you ruined the prize.”

  He held up the flower, rotating it to show where the main root had been torn completely free. “This will never grow back. You took its future for nothing. It is a wasteful, dishonorable kill.”

  The words struck a chord deeper than pride. He felt the anger in Yetran’s tether waver, replaced by a dawning, uncomfortable shame. Trenn turned his attention to the fistful of moss Arenlys held.

  “And this,” he said, gesturing to the mangled green clump, “is like trying to make a bowstring from a hacked-up hide. Tearing it like this breaks the fibers. It won't bind. It's just useless green dust.”

  He looked from one chastened face to the next. He picked up the bone knife Almitad had given him.

  “Watch.” He walked to the nearby sequoia and found a patch of the shimmering moss. “You scrape it. Gently. Like skinning a kill, taking only what you need.”

  He demonstrated the blade peeling a perfect, intact strip of the moss from the bark. He then located a Crimson Bell at the base of the tree. He used the tip of the knife to sever the stem with a single, clean cut.

  “A clean death,” he said, holding up the perfect, unbruised flower. “An honorable hunt.” He offered the flower and the moss to Yetran. The pup took them, his earlier arrogance gone, replaced by a quiet, focused respect.

  He studied the perfect specimens for a moment. Arenlys leaned in, her gaze fixed on the intact strip of moss, her own tether a current of dawning comprehension. Kael just stared at the unbruised flower, a flicker of genuine hope pulsing from his link. Yetran gave a sharp nod to his packmates. Their ears perked with this new, shared purpose. They turned and scattered back into the silvery woods.

  Trenn slowly began to reassemble his pistol, his movements once again calm and methodical.

  His attention followed the retreating, purposeful forms of the Wolf Kin. A faint, weary smile touched his lips.

  It was a feeling he had not realized he had been starving for: the quiet satisfaction of a lesson successfully taught. The ache in his chest was a familiar, bittersweet pang for the classroom he had lost, and for the teacher he was meant to become.

  I never thought I’d miss school this much.

  The fire crackled, its low light throwing long, dancing shadows across the ravaged turf. At the edge of the light, the immense, silent form of the Gem-Croc rested by the water. Trenn sat with his back to a rock, upturned by the trenched ground.

  The dull ache in his head was a persistent reminder of the battle.

  Mara rested near the flames, her empathic tether a steady, quiet pulse of exhaustion. Zeen, his legs propped carefully, radiated a focused curiosity.

  Their collective attention was fixed on the space Almitad had claimed. She had carved an intricate circle into the scarred earth, its complex runic patterns glowing with a sickly black-green light that pulsed in time with the glow from within her colorful, frilled robes.

  In the circle's center rested the macabre prosthetic: the skeletal forearm and hand of Wutren, bound to the slashed metal part of Ezy’s hook with black, sickly threads.

  Ezy walked toward the circle. Her steps were even, her jaw set with a grim anticipation that Trenn could feel through their tether. She stopped before Almitad's floating form, her one good eye fixed on the lich.

  Her voice was direct, a statement of need. "Will it work? Will it feel like a part of me?"

  Almitad's skull performed a single, slow shake from left to right. The necromancer's voice resonated deep in Trenn's bones.

  "No, but it will obey you. The runes will bind it to your will. Tether the prosthetic to your soul. Just as with the Scrapper."

  Her skeletal hand gestured toward the gruesome object lying in the center of the glowing runes, and a profound silence settled over the small group.

  From a worn leather roll, Almitad produced a slender stylus carved from bone. Its entire surface was a mosaic of miniature, inscribed symbols that seemed to writhe in the firelight. She floated lower, her robe casting a necrotic light through its neck, wrists, and legs.

  The garment settled around her as her bones sat into the circle, next to the severed limb.

  Then, the work began. A rhythmic, precise scrape-scrape-scrape followed her movements. Almitad meticulously carved the runes along the remaining part of the prosthetic's largest bone, the ulna.

  The patterns were intricate, a mix of spiraling forms and jagged, declarative lines that followed an ancient, arcane logic. Each scrape of the stylus was a purposeful act, etching power into the dead limb.

  Trenn closed his eyes. The crackle of the fire and the low groans of the Gem-Croc faded. Trenn's perception shifted, the physical world dissolving into the silent, intricate landscape of his sonar.

  The world resolved into a tapestry of sound and emotions. Almitad was no longer a skeleton in a robe, but a corrupt, unnatural tether, consumed by the feeling of an intense focus.

  A river of Necrotic Mana poured from the undead flower nestled within her ribcage. It powered the ritual circle that surrounded her, it fuelled the undead caster’s every movement, and it filled the runes she was carving with purpose.

  His focus traced the mana, the will behind the Shepherd of Loss’s undead form. The tether that had been forged by the third runeword in her robe’s lining.

  Its metaphysical structure was familiar. The recognition was immediate: Gil’s spirit, bound to Zeen’s musket. This was the same construct. A soul-anchor that bound Almitad’s soul to her runescribed remains.

  Is that necromancy? Binding souls to things? I… Could I—

  Her will translated into the intricate dance of her fingers. With swift, economical motions, she wove threads of necrotic power, each gesture a self-contained spell that built upon the last.

  The runes on the prosthetic itself erupted with mana. The dry scrape-scrape-scrape of the stylus ceased. The enchantment was locked in place.

  The prosthetic lay in the center of the now-dimly-pulsing circle, its own runes glowing faintly against the pale bone. Almitad floated back a step, her glowing robes ruffled by her movement.

  Ezy approached the circle, her face taut with concentration. She stopped at its edge but did not reach for the hand. She stood before it, her one good eye closed, her entire being focused on a single act of will.

  On the ground, the skeletal fingers twitched. Then, with a smooth, silent motion, they clenched into a powerful fist. A slow smile spread across Ezy’s face.

  A surge of dangerous satisfaction flooded through her tether, the thrill of newfound power. The hand was a grotesque marvel, wider than her own torso, each skeletal finger nearly as long as her forearm.

  Ezy lifted her living hand parallel to the prosthetic. The contrast was jarring. One was a small, gnome hand; the other, an upturned, skeletal Wolf Kin’s, easily three times its size. The morbid construction dwarfed her own arm.

  She looks like she’s wearing a bony catcher’s mitt.

  "Thank you, Almitad," said Ezy in a low, reverent whisper, “for the best tool in my toolkit.”

  She stepped into the fading circle and retrieved the prosthetic. She picked it up and slipped her stump into the prosthetic’s leather sleeve.

  Zeen moved forward to help her, his movements quick and efficient as he worked the leather and brass fittings, strapping the construct securely to her stump.

  The dark runes glowed faintly, visible beneath the straps. She flexed the powerful new digits again, and Trenn felt her satisfaction sharpen into a feeling of unshakeable control.

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