The hunting expeditions were a welcome reprieve that Darren had come to cherish. They were a break from the confined politics of the orphanage, the meticulous work in his lab, and the cloying heat of the bakery. Out here, under the vast canopy of the deep woods, the world expanded. The air was cleaner, the problems simpler. Sister Marta, of course, worried herself into a state every time he left. She would press a small pouch of dried fruit into his hand and make him promise a dozen times over to stay glued to Maida's side, her face a mask of anxiety until the moment he returned, safe and sound.
He walked near the back of the small party, his eyes scanning not just the forest floor for herbs as Maida did, but also the men themselves. He noticed Jarred, a hunter who had suffered a deep gash from a boar's tusk several months prior. Maida's traditional poultices had stopped the bleeding, but the wound had festered, and it was one of Darren's own quietly-suggested antiseptic salves that had finally beaten back the infection. The man was walking without a limp now, but Darren's observant eye saw the occasional wince, the slight favouring of his leg. He had recovered, but he wasn't truly healed. He had no business tracking game in the uneven terrain of the deep woods, but in a world where a day without work was a day without food, men often pushed their bodies past the point of sense.
The expedition was largely peaceful. The forest seemed to be holding its breath, and very few beasts of any size made an appearance. The quiet, however, was punctuated three times by the sharp snap of a sinew band and the whistle of a stone slicing through the air. Torvin, the hunter with the new slingshot, was proving its worth. Three fat grouse, knocked cleanly from their branches, were now tied to his belt.
"By the gods, Torvin, what is that contraption?" another hunter, a burly man named Erik, asked as Torvin expertly reloaded. "I've never seen a sling with such power."
Torvin grinned, holding up the weapon for them to see. "It's a new design. Gets the stone flying faster and truer than any sling I've ever used."
"Where did you get such a thing?" Jarred asked, leaning against a tree to rest his leg.
Torvin gestured with his chin toward the small boy walking beside the village herbalist. "The boy. Kael. He made it."
Four pairs of adult eyes turned to look at Darren. He met their gaze with a calm neutrality that was unnerving in a child. He was becoming a known quantity in the village, a source of strange but effective novelties: bread that tasted of dreams, salves that closed stubborn wounds, and now, tools that brought down game from impossible distances. He offered a small nod to the men before turning his attention back to the woods.
It was then that something caught his eye. A flicker of white in the deep green undergrowth. At first, he thought it was just a common rabbit, but as it hopped into a small clearing, Darren froze. It was the size and shape of a rabbit, with the same twitching nose and long, sensitive ears, but sprouting from the center of its forehead was a single, pearlescent horn. It was about four inches long, spiraling to a delicate, sharp point. The creature, which his mind immediately dubbed an 'Alatus', was nibbling on a clover, utterly oblivious to the stunned humans watching it.
Magic was real. He knew it existed, controlled by nobles and priests. But this was the first time he had seen tangible, living proof of it, a creature that defied every law of biology he had ever known. His mind, usually a fortress of cold logic, reeled with the possibilities. What were the properties of that horn? Did its flesh have unique qualities? Was its biology fundamentally different?
He turned to the one man he knew had the skill for the task. "Torvin," he whispered, his voice tight with excitement. "Can you catch it? Alive."
Torvin's eyes widened at the sight of the horned creature. He had heard tales of such things but had never seen one. He nodded, his hunter's focus taking over. He carefully selected a small, flat stone, one meant to sting, not to pierce. He took a steadying breath, drew back the powerful sinew band, and with a soft thwip, the stone shot forward. It struck the Alatus squarely on its hind foot with a sharp crack.
The creature let out a high-pitched squeal and tumbled, its leg broken. Before it could recover, Torvin lunged from the brush, his large hands scooping it up with practiced ease. The Alatus thrashed, its tiny horn flashing dangerously.
"Here, boy," Torvin said, holding the struggling animal out to Darren. "But be careful with that horn. The stories say they're sharper than any needle."
Darren took the rabbit, his hands surprisingly steady. He held it firmly, keeping the horn pointed away from himself. The creature's heart hammered against its ribs, a frantic, terrified beat he could feel through its soft fur. He had his prize.
Upon their return to the village, Darren bypassed the orphanage and went straight to the carpenter's workshop. Thorren was planing a long plank of wood, the shavings curling at his feet.
"Master Thorren," Darren said politely.
The carpenter looked up. "Ah, Kael. What can I do for you today? Need another table for your experiments?"
"I need a cage," Darren said. "A small one. Sturdy. With a strong latch."
Thorren raised an eyebrow but shrugged. In his experience, the orphan boy's requests were always strange but always paid for. "Aye, I can do that. Come back for it tomorrow afternoon."
Darren thanked him and headed for the orphanage, the warm, trembling body of the Alatus held securely in his arms. As he entered the main room, the usual chatter of the children died instantly, replaced by gasps of awe. They crowded around him, their eyes wide with wonder at the horned rabbit.
"What is it?"
"Is it magic?"
"Can I touch it?"
Their excitement was a wave that washed over the room, but it crashed against the stony expressions of the two sisters who emerged from the kitchen.
"Kael!" Sister Agnes's voice was sharp as broken glass. "What is the meaning of this? You will not bring a wild, horned beast into this house!"
"It could be dangerous," she continued, her hands on her hips. "It could carry disease. Take it back to the woods at once."
Darren stood his ground, clutching his prize. "Its leg is broken. It will die if I release it."
"That is the way of the world," Sister Agnes retorted.
"Agnes, wait," Sister Marta said, her voice softer. She stepped forward, her eyes fixed on the strange creature, then on Darren's determined face. She had learned that when Kael did something unusual, there was always a purpose behind it. "He saved the sick children with his medicine. He helped organize the garden to give us a better harvest. If he says he needs to care for this creature, then perhaps we should trust him." She looked at Sister Agnes. "He has earned at least that much."
Sister Agnes huffed, clearly displeased, but she did not press the matter further, turning back to the kitchen with a disapproving shake of her head.
That night, with the other children asleep, Darren tended to his new charge. In a quiet corner of the sleeping quarters, he gently set the Alatus down. He took a length of rope and tied it carefully around the rabbit's neck, creating a loose but secure tether. He then placed several heavy rocks on the end of the rope, ensuring the small creature could not hop away and injure itself further. He then retrieved a small pot of the antiseptic, pain-dulling salve he'd perfected. Gently, he cleaned the wound on the Alatus's broken leg and applied the medicine. The rabbit flinched but did not struggle, seemingly exhausted from its ordeal.
The next day, he collected the cage from Thorren. It was simple but strong, just as he'd asked. Back at the orphanage, he carefully placed the Alatus inside, along with a handful of fresh, tender greens from his section of the garden and a small bowl of clean, boiled water. The creature, now secured and fed, began to calm down, its twitching nose sampling the offering of food.
Darren watched it for a long time, his mind a whirl of calculations. The other children saw a magical pet. Sister Marta saw an act of compassion. Sister Agnes saw a nuisance. They were all wrong.
He was ensuring the rabbit was healthy, that its leg would mend properly, yes. He needed it to live. But his motives were far from altruistic. In the near future, if he could encourage it to breed, it represented a potential, sustainable source of protein for the orphanage, a domesticated animal unique to them. But that was a long-term goal. Its more immediate and vital purpose was far more clinical.
He was on the verge of creating remedies that went far beyond salves and rehydration solutions. He was working on compounds to fight deep sickness, to bolster the body's own strength, to combat the creeping decay he saw in the orphanage's elderly matron. But these were potent, and potentially dangerous, concoctions. He could not, would not, test them on a human.
The Alatus, nibbling on a lettuce leaf in its cage, was not a pet. It was the key. It would be his first test subject.