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Four Years Ago – Part VI:
The forest beyond the Ashward Fold was nothing like the rot-thick woods where Granny Maldri foraged for cursed herbs.
There was no Unbinding here. No whispers curling from the dark.
This place was alive—and it knew its own worth.
Akar didn't pulse here like a dying man's heartbeat. It flowed, golden and strong, through veins of moss and roots thicker than Hatim's thigh. Trees bore fruit with luminous rinds, their bark etched with glyphs that grew, not were carved. Ferns unfurled in slow, deliberate spirals, leaves edged with bioluminescent dew. Even the air tasted different—thick with nectar and the metallic tang of raw power.
And the creatures…
Hatim crouched low behind a moss-covered stump, his ribs still screaming from the Pit. His breath caught.
A horned beryl-stag stood a few paces ahead, drinking from a creek that shimmered like molten glass. It stood tall as a trade cart, its hide a shifting mosaic of jade and amber stone, antlers draped in razor-edged golden moss. Every movement was deliberate, reverent, as if it knew the very ground it walked on was sacred.
Hatim didn't move. Not just from fear—but from awe.
The stag lifted its head, water sluicing from its muzzle. For a heartbeat, its obsidian eyes locked onto Hatim's hiding place. Then, with a flick of its moss-laden antlers, it turned and vanished into the trees, silent as shadow.
Hatim exhaled slowly. Move. Before something smarter finds you.
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The Descent
The forest grew warmer as he descended, the air thickening with the scent of fermenting fruit and wet stone. Signs of other desperate souls marked the path:
- A broken spear, its shaft chewed by teeth too large to name.
- A bloodstained rag knotted around a vine, its fibers still twitching faintly with residual Akar.
- A boot, half-buried in the loam, the bones inside picked clean.
The deeper he went, the clearer it became:
He wasn't the first to try this.
But he might be the last still breathing.
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The Basin
The path narrowed to a ledge overlooking a hollow of white marble and coiled roots. At its center lay the Akar Pool—still as a mirror, its surface swirling with threads of liquid gold.
And there, at the water's edge: the guardian.
Not a myth. Not a spirit.
A beast.
Twice Hatim's size, built low and sinuous like a cross between a panther and a river eel. Its hide was velvet-scaled, shimmering with consumed Akar, muscles rolling beneath its skin like molten metal. It drank slowly, its long tongue lapping the pool's surface, each sip making its veins flare brighter.
Hatim's fingers dug into the moss. Just a predator. Not a god. Not a demon.
But beauty made it no less deadly.
His eyes darted to the basin's edge—where jagged Akar Crystals jutted from the roots like exposed ribs. Smaller. Loose. Reachable.
The beast blocked the straight path.
Gorran's voice hissed in his memory:
"Don't fight. Don't challenge. If you want to steal from something that eats light, you don't brawl—you trick."
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The Distraction
Hatim unslung his satchel, fingers trembling. He had little left:
- A strip of salted rat jerky, hard as wood.
- A crumbling wedge of marrow-bark, bitter as poison.
- And—yes—a jar of Brine Ant paste, the stench so vile even swamp dogs fled from it.
He smeared the paste onto a scrap of cloth, tied it to a stone, and hurled it toward the far side of the basin.
Thunk.
The reek hit the air like a corpse's sigh.
The beast's head snapped up, nostrils flaring. It snarled—a sound like grinding glass—and began slinking toward the stench, muscles coiling with predatory patience.
Hatim didn't wait.
He slid over the ledge, boots silent on the moss. Every step sent fire through his bruised ribs. The crystals pulsed as he neared, their heat kissing his skin even through the cloth of his satchel.
One. His fingers closed around a shard the length of a knife blade. It seared his palm, the pain sweet. Two. Another, thicker, its edges singing against his calluses. Three—
A guttural hiss cut the air.
The beast was turning back.
Not fooled. Not for long.
Hatim didn't think.
He ran.
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The Escape
His boots skidded on marble slick with Akar-tinged water. The beast's snarls echoed off the basin walls as he clawed at the roots, fingernails splitting on bark. Something hot grazed his calf—a whip of the creature's tongue, lashing out like a striking serpent.
Then he was over the edge, crashing into ferns, the crystals burning against his hip.
The beast roared—but didn't follow.
Too sated. Too lazy.
Hatim staggered deeper into the trees before collapsing, his forehead pressed to the earth. The crystals throbbed in his satchel, their warmth seeping into his bones.
Alive.
For now.
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The Ambition
He rolled onto his back, staring up at the fractured light through the canopy. The Crowns loomed somewhere beyond these trees—where men traded in power, not scraps. Where a Sinks rat with stolen light in his hands might become something *more*.
The forest watched. Silent.
But not yet cruel.