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 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, ribs still screaming from the Pit. His breath caught.
A horned beryl-stag stood a few paces ahead, drinking from a creek shimmering like molten glass. It was as 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 awe.
The stag lifted its head, water sluicing from its muzzle. For a heartbeat, obsidian eyes locked onto Hatim's hiding place. Then, with a flick of moss-laden antlers, it vanished into the trees, silent as shadow.
Hatim exhaled slowly.
Move. Before something smarter finds you.
The forest grew warmer as he descended, air thickening with fermenting fruit and wet stone. Signs of others marked the path:
- A broken spear, shaft chewed by teeth too large to name.
- A bloodstained rag knotted around a vine, fibers twitching faintly with residual Akar.
- A boot, half-buried in loam, bones 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.
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, 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 panther and river eel. Velvet-scaled hide shimmered with consumed Akar, muscles rolling beneath like molten metal. It drank slowly, tongue lapping pool's surface, each sip making its veins flare brighter.
Hatim's fingers dug into 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—jagged Akar Crystals jutted from roots like exposed ribs. Smaller. Loose. Reachable.
The beast blocked the straight path.
Gorran's voice hissed in memory:
"Don't fight. Don't challenge. If you want to steal from something that eats light, you don't brawl—you trick."
Hatim unslung his satchel, fingers trembling. Little left:
- A strip of salted rat jerky, hard as wood.
- A crumbling wedge of marrow-bark, bitter as poison.
- And—a jar of Brine Ant paste, stench so vile even swamp dogs fled.
He smeared paste onto cloth, tied it to a stone, hurled it toward far side of basin.
Thunk.
The reek hit air like a corpse's sigh.
The beast's head snapped up, nostrils flaring. It snarled—a sound like grinding glass—and slinked toward the stench, muscles coiling with predatory patience.
Hatim didn't wait.
He slid over the ledge, boots silent on moss. Every step sent fire through bruised ribs. Crystals pulsed as he neared, heat kissing skin even through satchel cloth.
One. Fingers closed around a shard the length of a knife blade. It seared his palm, pain sweet. Two. Another, thicker, edges singing against calluses. Three—
A guttural hiss cut the air.
The beast was turning back.
Not fooled. Not for long.
Hatim didn't think.
He ran.
Boots skidded on marble slick with Akar-tinged water. Beast's snarls echoed off basin walls as he clawed at roots, fingernails splitting on bark. Something hot grazed his calf—a whip of creature's tongue, lashing like a striking serpent.
Then he was over the edge, crashing into ferns, crystals burning against hip.
The beast roared—but didn't follow.
Too sated. Too lazy.
Hatim staggered deeper into trees before collapsing, forehead pressed to earth. Crystals throbbed in satchel, warmth seeping into bones.
Alive.
For now.
He rolled onto his back, staring up at fractured light through canopy. The Crowns loomed 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.