Rowan woke before the sun rose. He didn't waste time.
His mother was still asleep, her breaths shallow but steady. Maid Reene had dozed off in the chair nearby, an empty mug of tea cooling at her side. The house was silent. Too silent.
Rowan crept across the creaking floorboards and knelt near the edge of the old pantry shelf. He pulled it aside slowly, revealing a loose plank beneath. From underneath, he drew out a small iron box, its lock old but untouched.
Inside were the last of their savings: 12 gold coins. One hundred bronze coins equaled 1 silver coin. One hundred silver coins equaled 1 gold coin.
Mother and Rowan had always been careful with money. Even after the fall, even after the sickness, they still had 12 gold coins left in savings, tucked away in a locked box beneath the floorboards.
But the herbs Mr. Harnes needed weren't cheap. Twenty-five gold coins. That meant they needed 13 more. They didn't have it. And no one would lend it. So Rowan had to earn it.
He counted out 30 silver coins, closed the box, and returned it exactly as he found it. Then he stood and left for the city.
The blacksmith barely looked up when Rowan entered. "You buying or begging?" the man grunted.
"Buying," Rowan said, lifting his handful of coins.
The smith raised an eyebrow. "What kind of fool sends a brat to buy iron?"
Rowan kept his face blank. "You selling or should I move to the next shop?"
That made the blacksmith pause. He studied Rowan's small frame, the too-large cloak, the half-hidden bruises beneath his eyes, but said nothing.
Eventually, Rowan walked out with a dull short sword. It wasn't well-sharpened and had a chip near the guard, but it was solid steel, not rusted iron. It cost him 20 silver coins, almost everything he had. He also found a cracked leather vest at a pawn tent nearby for a few more bronze. No one asked questions. Just coin.
The sword's weight on his back felt heavy. Unfamiliar. But right.
He reached the edge of Glavenreach Woods by midmorning. There were no fences, only danger signs. He crossed the threshold, and the forest swallowed him whole.
Inside, the light dimmed. The canopy above blocked much of the sun, leaving only broken shafts of light. The air was cooler here, damp and earthy. Moss covered the trees. The dirt turned soft beneath his boots.
Rowan gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, his other hand clutching the frayed shoulder strap of the small satchel he'd packed, some dried bread and a waterskin. He didn't plan to go deep. Just far enough to find a horned rabbit or a lone forest wolf. Kill one. Bring it back. Sell it for coin.
A branch snapped somewhere ahead. Rowan froze, his heart slamming against his ribs as he crouched low behind a thick root. Breath shallow. Eyes wide. Then he saw it, small, white-furred, and hopping through the underbrush. A horned rabbit. Level 0 beast.
Its spiral horn glinted as it sniffed the moss-covered ground. It hadn't seen him. Rowan crept closer, sword shaking in his grip. This was it. This was the first step.
He moved slowly, careful not to rustle the leaves beneath his boots. The horned rabbit raised its head once, ears twitching, but didn't bolt. Just a few more steps.
He lunged.
The rabbit squealed and leapt sideways, but Rowan had already swung. The blade sliced through fur and muscle, not cleanly, but deep enough. Blood spattered the moss as the creature thrashed, then stilled.
Rowan stood there, panting, hands trembling. He stared at the bloodied sword, at the still-warm rabbit. Then he exhaled.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't easy. But he'd done it. He wiped the blade on the grass and got to work.
By noon, he'd killed five more: three horned rabbits and two claw squirrels that had tried to ambush him from a tree. One had scratched his arm before he stabbed upward blindly, catching it mid-jump.
The final beast was a greenback badger, stout, angry, and surprisingly fast. It had charged him when he stepped too close to its burrow. The fight had been rougher. He only won because it got stuck between two roots, and he stabbed its eye.
By the time Rowan dragged the bodies back to town, his arms ached and his legs were covered in grime. His satchel was bloodstained. His hands, blistered.
He went to the back of a tannery near the slums. Hunters sold low-rank beasts here, quick, quiet, and with no questions asked. The old man at the counter eyed the pile. "Six rabbits, two squirrels, one greenback. All Level 0."
He tossed a small pouch onto the table. "Eighteen bronze."
Rowan blinked. "That's it?"
"Rabbit horns don't sell for much these days," the man grunted. "Badger was decent, but the pelt's torn. This ain't a charity."
Rowan clenched his jaw but said nothing. He took the pouch and left.
Eighteen bronze. Not even one silver. And the sword had cost him twenty silver. At this rate, it would take years.
But he didn't feel angry. Just cold. Tired. Grounded.
He understood now why beast hunting paid so well. Because it was cruel. Because most people couldn't do it twice.
If he wanted real coin, he'd have to go deeper. Level 1 beasts. Better materials. Bigger risk. But not yet. Not until he had more experience. He didn't want to die from overconfidence.
Rowan walked home quietly that evening, his sword heavy on his back and his pouch full of copper clinking softly at his side.
A month passed.
Rowan rose before dawn every day, slipping into Glavenreach Woods with his worn sword and fraying satchel. He hunted horned rabbits, claw squirrels, and greenback badgers until his arms ached and his legs felt like stone.
Day by day, kill by kill, he got better. Faster swings, cleaner strikes, fewer cuts. He learned where the beasts liked to hide, when they hunted, how they moved before they attacked. And he didn't die. That alone made him better than most.
The bruises under his eyes faded, replaced by quiet focus. The blisters on his palms turned to hard calluses. He could skin a beast in minutes now, drain its blood without wasting a drop, cut the meat and organs the tannery liked best. And little by little, the bronze coins added up.
Fifteen silver.
He held the pouch in his hand that morning, weighing its worth against the risk. It wasn't enough to save his mother, not even close. But it was proof. He could do this. He'd earned it.
But the shallow edges of Glavenreach no longer offered enough. The Level 0 beasts he once struggled to kill now fell in seconds. The hunters who worked near the edge began to recognize him, some with curiosity, others with quiet jealousy. But no one stopped him.
That morning, Rowan didn't turn back toward the usual hunting paths. Instead, he walked deeper.
The trees grew thicker, the air colder. Strange bird calls echoed in the canopy above. There were no signs here. No well-trodden paths or claw-marked stones from other hunters. Just moss, shadows, and silence.
He kept his sword ready, fingers tight on the hilt. He knew what he was doing. Knew this was where the Level 0 beasts lived, the ones that killed careless hunters and made grown men run.
But Rowan wasn't overconfident. He wasn't very strong. Not yet. But he had skill now. And for the first time, the fear in his chest didn't stop him. It focused him.
Rowan pressed forward, boots quiet on damp ground, heart steady. Somewhere in this deeper part of Glavenreach, danger waited. So did the coin. So did the cure.
And Rowan was ready.