In the afternoon, Hunter was eager to get to work turning the rabbit’s skull into a talisman, as Aumir had told him he should. The huntsman, however, explained to him how the bones first needed to be cleaned and macerated, which meant they'd have to sit in a pot of water mixed with wood ash for a few days before he could use them for his grisly arts and crafts.

  After showing him how to treat the bones and skull, Aumir excused himself for his afternoon nap. With a bit of quiet time on his hands, Hunter decided to check whether Fawkes had written him another letter. It had been a while since he’d last heard from her, and he was starting to worry.

  He retrieved the book they'd been using for correspondence from the Arsenal Bracer's storage space, and, to his delight, he saw Fawkes had finally answered his last letter.

  

  Dear Hunter,

  I hope this letter finds you in high spirits and good health. Forgive me for not finding the time to pen an answer earlier; moments of leisure and respite have lately been few and far between.

  I was indeed glad to hear you left the Brennai village, though more than a bit outraged by that little shite Yuma's treatment of you. Since, as you wrote, all's well that ends well, however, I believe that it was for the better. I was also glad to hear you got yourself a new companion. I know that I need not remind you not to be overly trusting, but I will do so nonetheless. Make sure to figure out what it is that he wants of you as soon as possible (because everyone wants something!), and please disclose his name in your next letter.

  As for the godling part… Again, I know that I need not remind you to be careful, and that it is far from my place to mother you. Still, I must insist that you approach such a hunt with the utmost prudence and caution, your nature's unique resilience notwithstanding.

  To that end, I will disclose the index code for a book that you may find interesting to study before venturing forth. And if, as you wrote, things go sideways, do not tarry; get out of Dodge and skedaddle.

  Things are fine on my end, thank you kindly for asking. I have parted ways with Wroth and his people. He sends you his best, too, and was also mortified to hear about Yuma. His exact words were, and I quote, 'I should have broken the little prick's legs like twigs when I had the chance.'

  In the following weeks, my plan is to make my way north post-haste, as I would like to reach my destination before the first snows make passage through the mountains difficult.

  I shall write more about my journey in one of my next letters, if opportunity allows me to, but know I am well, if missing your and the mutt's company dearly. Already looking forward to your reply,

  F.

  Hunter was relieved to know Fawkes was alright, and couldn’t help but chuckle at both her and Wroth’s reactions to Yuma’s antics. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d said virtually nothing about how she was really doing. Whatever worries he had for her, they were more about her emotional well-being than her physical.

  Not that she was deliberately shutting him out; she was just like that as a person. She'd never gone into much detail, but Hunter had a hunch that her life and personal relationships before meeting Reiner hadn’t exactly been healthy. That was why his death had hit her like a freight train.

  As promised, at the end of the letter, she’d left him the index code for a book. Hunter copied it into his own logbook, then retrieved it from the Arsenal Bracer’s storage space. It was a thickish, leatherbound tome titled The Spirit Realm: On the Nature of Raequir, Godlings, and the Spirit Host.

  From a cursory glance, it appeared to be part treatise on the spirit realm and its various denizens, part compendium of folklore tales and personal narratives. Hunter appreciated the gesture; it definitely looked like an intriguing read.

  Hunter set the book aside for later and reached for his writing supplies. With Aumir and Fyodor snoring merrily, it felt like as good a time as any to pen a reply. He settled by the fire, legs crossed, and stared at the blank page for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

  

  Dear Fawkes,

  I just read your letter, and I'm happy to know you're doing well. Thank you for the book, too; I'll make sure to study everything it says on the subject of godlings.

  On my end, not too much has changed since I last wrote you. I'm still at the cabin, sharpening my skills and learning hunting and survival-related stuff. I'm even learning to shoot a bow, though I must say I've missed a good sparring session.

  The hunstman I wrote you about has been a great help overall. His name is Aumir, of the Krommkhatanni, whoever those may be. You were right, of course; he's mentioned he has a vested interest in me, something about the Court of Herne being short one elite huntsman.

  To be frank, I'm still foggy on the specifics. So far, however, it doesn't sound like anything nefarious. Gaining influence with Herne kind of aligns with my own goals for the time being, so I guess all's well.

  Fyodor's been having the time of his life. He gave me a hand on my first proper hunt, too: Aumir handed me a piece of poop and told me to hunt the rabbit it came from. It sounds crazy, I know, but I managed to track it down. I tried to shoot it with a bow and arrow and failed miserably, so I simply had the mutt flush it out of its hiding place and the ravens blast it with magic. Not the cleanest kill, sure, but I think you'd enjoy the look of bewilderment on Aumir's face.

  Other than that, I've been trying to spend more time and take care of myself on my side of things. I've been thinking about you a lot, and, while I understand why you had to go, I still wish you were here.

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

  Take care out there, and write back soon. And this time, please, don't skimp on the details. Or Fyodor will be appalled.

  Stay safe,

  Your favorite Transient

  Once the ink was dry, he shut the book and placed it back in the Arsenal Bracer, hoping Fawkes would read his reply soon. Not having her around felt strange; corresponding with her, even stranger. It left a peculiar sensation in the pit of his stomach, so for the rest of the day, he tried to take his mind off things by practicing his Wildcrafting and Craft Spirit Charm abilities.

  For the next few hours, he focused on building up his supplies of medicinal herbs, salves, and Corpse Hair Charms. He even put together a few other charms and trinkets, though nothing particularly special. His real goal was to push his abilities toward the soft cap for his Rung, and on that front, he did well: by the end of the day, Wildcrafting had reached 16, and Craft Spirit Charm hit 25.

  Seeing that notification pop up in his HUD was particularly rewarding:

  

  

  Your Craft Spirit Charm has reached the maximum threshold for your current Rung. Further progression will be significantly reduced until Rung advancement.

  

  Your Craft Spirit Charm has reached the maximum threshold for your current Rung. As a result, you have gained Inspiration. Your Inspiration quality is now 3.

  That was one more ability he could strike off his list, and with it, one more point of Inspiration, ready to be invested into something new.

  He'd asked Aumir about that; since he was supposed to be so gifted in the ways of the spirit-speaker, why hadn't the huntsman instructed him to prioritize more spirit-related abilities. There was an ability literally called Conjure Spirit he could learn.

  Aumir's reply had been something along the same lines as bairns learning to walk before they run.

  "Patience, sirrah," he'd said. "When the student is truly ready, the teacher will appear."

  "That makes no sense," Hunter insisted, but huntsman was obviously commited to being cryptic.

  "Baheep," he'd said, flashing him his infuriating, gold-toothed grin, and that was that. "So it goes."

  When Hunter was finally done crafting spirit charms, it was early evening. Aumir had disappeared to gods-knew-where, and he’d taken Fyodor with him. Not one to let the peace and quiet go to waste, Hunter pulled up his character sheet and scanned through his list of skills and abilities, looking for what to focus on next.

  Mystical Phenomena was what caught his eye; it was a peculiar ability, one he'd picked up more or less on a whim. He’d hardly ever used it for anything beyond trying to control the outcome of coin flips—an exercise Fawkes had insisted on.

  He pulled up its description to refresh his memory:

  

  

  Mystical Phenomena allows the practitioner to tap into their Insight to subtly manipulate the fabric of the world around them. Through quiet exertion of will and focus, they can nudge the flow of chance, tilt the weight of outcomes, and interfere with the natural order in small but meaningful ways.

  The manifestations created by Mystical Phenomena are rarely dramatic; to onlookers, they often might seem like luck or coincidence.

  Higher ranks allow for broader and more deliberate manipulations, while also reducing the likelihood of drawing unwanted attention from entities or forces that take interest in such quiet violations of the Wyrd.

  Ah, yes. That was why he’d been disinclined to practice Mystical Phenomena: that last part about violating the Wyrd and drawing unwanted attention sounded a bit too sinister and ominous. Still, he’d already invested a point of Inspiration in it; might as well see if he could get it to 25 and earn the point back. In fact, it might even help him get Occultism to 25 too, and kill two birds with one stone. Flipping coins couldn’t be too grievous of a violation... could it?

  Hunter threw an armful of dry twigs into the hearth, made himself comfortable, and took out the two coins Fawkes had given him. They were Quortain crowns, similar to silver dollars. One bore a regal-looking woman's head on one side and a flying castle on the other. The second was a trick coin, identical in weight and shape, but with heads on both sides.

  The exercise’s goal was to manipulate the coin flips and get heads ten times in a row. Hunter had only made it to eight, and he distinctly remembered that being more a stroke of luck than any true mastery of Mystical Phenomena. Then Fawkes had bet she could do it too, even without the ability. She’d won that bet, albeit by palming the normal coin and using the trick one instead. When a furious Hunter accused her of cheating, she’d just grinned and dropped one of her favorite nuggets of wisdom: “Never fight fair if you can fight smart instead, especially if there’s luck involved.”

  The two coins had been a gift—a memento of the lesson, and a reminder of another nugget of wisdom: always look at both sides of the coin. Hunter had done his best to take that advice to heart.

  Hunter made the trick coin vanish up his sleeve and into the storage space of the Arsenal Bracer—he was slowly getting the hang of that trick—and started flipping the other.

  Using Mystical Phenomena was not easy. Affecting the outcome of a single coin flip required Hunter to visualize some kind of vestigial, incorporeal limb—then reach out through the cosmos and touch the coin as it twirled in midair, nudging it just enough to make it land the way he wanted. It was an exercise of intense focus, willpower, and mental dexterity, and it took a heavy toll on his already half-depleted Essence reserves.

  Even if he had a better grasp of the ability and enough Essence to strong-arm the results of the coin flips, however, he had the distinct sense that he shouldn't. Every time he reached out with that phantom limb and twisted the outcome, it felt wrong, like poking a hole through the veil of reality just wide enough to slip a fingertip through. What he was doing was unnatural, an affront to the proper state of things, a deliberate violation of cause and effect.

  There was a prickling sensation at the small of his back, a tension that crept up the base of his skull like cold breath on bare skin. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching, scrutinizing his every move with lidless, unblinking eyes. Each flip of the coin felt like tiptoeing through a sleeping beast’s lair, hoping he could finish before it stirred.

  The only reason his transgressions felt bearable—lesser, somehow—was because, as far as he could tell, they didn’t really matter. He wasn’t bending fate to sway outcomes of consequence or alter the shape of things to come. He was just flipping coins.

  So he went on, flipping coin after coin, trying to ignore the creeping sense of foreboding that clung to the edges of his focus. It was easy enough to push aside in the moment, but it lingered, like the foul aftertaste of something spoiled.

  Only much later, lying awake in his bed at the Happy Motel, did the thought finally catch up with him: he was bending fate, in a way. Each successful flip earned him progress; each skill point he gained, each subtle change in his ability, it all added up.

  And down the line, who knew how that accumulation might tip the scales?

  He tried not to think about it. The insomnia that came with living life split between two worlds was already bad enough without adding a splash of cosmic horror into the mix. But sleep didn’t come until well into the small hours, and when it finally did, it was shallow and strange.

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