The hunter's battered van, a relic of countless less-than-legal expeditions, screeched to a halt in the deserted clearing. Its headlights, askew and coated with grime, sliced through the pre-dawn gloom, illuminating the ancient oak—but not the prize Gregor had expected.
He vaulted from the driver's seat, the metallic tang of adrenaline already souring in his mouth. His eyes scanned for the whimpering form of the werebear cub he'd seen securely bound. Instead, only empty air greeted him, disturbed by the settling dust from his arrival and the faint, loamy scent of damp earth.
A roar, more animal than human, ripped from his throat. Months—months he'd spent tracking this particular lineage, the meticulous poisoning of the parents—all for nothing. The small fortune he'd envisioned, the one that would finally buy him a fertile patch downriver, far from the stink and squalor of the cities, had vanished like morning mist.
He stalked toward the oak tree, the heavy iron chains he'd brought to secure the cub for transport clanking ominously in his calloused hand. Each link was a metallic curse against his misfortune. Blind, consuming rage took over.
He swung the chains, again and again, against the thick, unyielding trunk. Metal bit into bark with brutal force, sending splinters flying. Each impact was a physical manifestation of his seething frustration—the lost opportunity a bitter, coppery taste in his mouth.
Finally, his furious tantrum subsided. Panting, sweat stinging his eyes, his knuckles white around the chain links, he lowered his arms. The chains dragged heavily on the ground.
His gaze, still burning, fell on the tree where the cub had been. A flicker of confusion, then sharp, calculating thought, pierced the red haze of his anger. How had that scrawny, green-clad boy managed to restrain a creature that had given a seasoned hunter like him, a specialist in rare and magical beasts, such a run for his money?
He'd seen the primal fear in the cub's eyes, yes, but also the raw, untamed strength thrumming in its small frame. Simple ropes, even his best, wouldn't have held it for long once the initial shock wore off.
Gregor moved closer, hunter's instincts honed over decades overriding his lingering fury. His eyes, narrowed and sharp, scanned the base of the tree, the disturbed earth, the lower branches.
It wasn't rope. He was sure of that.
Tangled around the trunk, binding the lower branches with unnatural tightness, were thick, gnarled roots, seemingly growing directly from the damp earth. Their patterns were too deliberate, too constricting to be natural.
He knelt, ignoring the damp seeping into his worn leather breeches. His fingers traced the rough, bark-like texture. A faint, almost imperceptible thrum of energy resonated beneath his touch, a subtle vibration that prickled his skin.
Magic. Not flashy, explosive magic, nor necromancy. This felt… older. Earthier.
His eyes widened. A slow, cold dawning of realization spread across his harsh features, chasing away the last vestiges of frustration. That boy… he hadn't just found a convenient rope or stumbled upon a pre-existing, magically-enhanced plant. He had controlled these roots.
A green mage.
Gregor's breath hitched. The legends flickered through his mind—fireside tales his grandmother used to scare him with. Green mages were thought extinct in this part of the world, driven out during the Great Exodus, hunted when the Old Kings feared their power over the land itself.
A low, avaricious chuckle rumbled in his chest. Dry, rasping.
Werebears fetched decent money. Certainly a handful of gold for a rare, healthy specimen. Enough for a few good months.
But a green mage… a living green mage, a child at that, pliable, perhaps easily controlled… they were worth more than a king's ransom. A hundred times more, if the old tales held truth.
His lips, thin and cruel, curled into a truly evil grin, teeth stained yellow by cheap tobacco. His luck hadn't run out—it had merely taken a more… verdant, and infinitely more profitable, turn.
Gregor scrambled back into the van, jamming it into gear with a violence that made the engine scream. Tires spat gravel and tore at the earth as he wrenched the vehicle around, heading back toward Stylwater City.
He drove with reckless abandon, fueled by a different fire—pure, unadulterated greed. He nearly clipped a wandering goat on the outskirts of a sleeping village, swerved to avoid a deep pothole that would have shattered his axle, the van groaning under the strain.
The image of the green mage, the boy with the strange root-sword, and the unimaginable fortune he represented burned in his mind, eclipsing the minor, almost laughable, loss of the werebear cub.
Hours later, as the bruised twilight sky bled into inky night, the dilapidated skyline of Stylwater loomed. He navigated the labyrinthine streets, the van rattling like a cage of angry spirits, until he reached the decaying, salt-scoured ruins of the abandoned fish market on the city's derelict waterfront.
A cluster of equally battered vehicles—carts with reinforced cages, wagons with suspicious tarpaulin-covered loads, and a few more sputtering vans like his own—surrounded the crumbling warehouse. This was where the city's underbelly met the wild's ruthlessness.
He cut the engine. The sudden silence amplified distant, mournful gull cries and the slap of oily water against rotting pylons. The air hung thick with ghosts of brine, stale fish, and something else… feral, unwashed, always clinging to places like this.
He slammed the van door and strode toward the flickering lamplight spilling from the warehouse's open maw.
Inside, the cavernous space reeked of mildew, cheap ale, and desperation. Figures huddled around a makeshift table of fish crates, lamplight casting long, distorted shadows on damp walls. Scarred faces lifted, eyes cold and calculating, predators sizing up new meat—or opportunity.
Knucklebones clattered to a halt. A man sharpened a gutting knife with meticulous care.
"Well, look what the swamp dragged in," a burly man chuckled, spitting brown liquid on the floor. "Didn't think you'd be back so soon, Gregor. Lose your way chasing shadows again?"
Gregor ignored the jibe, eyes sweeping the table. He knew them: Borok, burly muscle and bluster; Kell, thin, wiry, hawk-eyed tracker; and a few others, interchangeable in desperation and brutality.
"Anything new?" he asked, voice raw.
Kell jerked his chin toward a stack of damp, curling parchment. "Fresh off the presses. Smuggled out this afternoon. Capital's got a new obsession. Or an old one."
Gregor snatched the top sheet. A crude sketch of a boy with dark hair and a gnarled root-sword. Below, stark letters:
"WANTED: LEONOTIS – GREEN MAGE. SIGHTING OR CAPTURE. BY ORDER OF KING REGA IV. SUBSTANTIAL REWARD."
"That's him," Gregor breathed, thrill coursing through him. "The boy I saw. The one controlling the roots."
"A green mage?" Borok whistled, eyes gleaming with sudden interest. "Damn, Gregor, you didn't just stumble into mushrooms. You fell face-first into a goldmine."
"He's heading north," Gregor said, voice tight. "With two others—girls, I think. Water Mountain."
"Water Mountain?" Kell frowned. "Deep wildlands. Worse than the Dark Forest. King's patrols are thick up there."
"The reward's worth it," Gregor countered, eyes gleaming. "King's desperate. A living green mage, a child. Easier to handle."
A ripple of avarice ran through the group. Even Kell's caution wavered.
"So, we split it evenly?" Borok asked, counting imaginary gold.
"Of course," Gregor said, predatory grin spreading. "All in, to the last coin."
Harsh, eager laughter erupted, echoing through the warehouse. Dentured tankards clinked, a rough toast to their impending fortune. They were hunters, united by greed—and they had just found their most valuable prey yet.