The rule was simple.
No lone wandering.
The rule was also impossible.
Three Crowns held, but it didn't feed. Traps above ground caught birds and the occasional climbing thing. Scavenging was slow. Rations were tight enough that jokes about bones stopped being funny and started being math.
Boss Mokh knew it. Everyone did.
That didn't stop the looks.
When Vark tightened the vine cord around his waist and checked the edge of the sharpened stake he'd been working into a spear, goblin eyes followed him from platforms and branches. Quiet. Measuring. Waiting to see if he'd do something stupid again.
Drukk Ear-Torn watched openly, arms crossed, torn ear twitching.
"You go alone," Drukk said, not raising his voice. "Bad happen."
"I not alone," Vark said, without looking up.
Mogrin popped into view immediately, slingshot looped around his neck like a badge. "Mogrin go."
A few goblins muttered.
"That two, not alone," someone said reluctantly.
"That still stupid," another countered.
Boss Mokh didn't intervene.
That was the real permission.
Vark met Mokh's gaze across the platforms. Mokh held it for a moment, then looked away—back to trappers tightening lashings, to scouts whispering about wind.
Bring food, the look said. Or don't come back empty.
Vark nodded once and turned away.
They descended the Three Crowns quietly, taking the reinforced paths, careful not to creak rope or snap bark. The lake mist clung low, but they angled away from the restricted shore, heading inland where the forest thickened and the ground rose.
Mogrin bounced once, then caught himself and walked properly.
"Quiet," he whispered to himself.
Vark didn't correct him. He was doing better than most adults.
They stopped after a short distance where the ground turned from damp loam to firmer soil scattered with roots and fallen leaves. Vark crouched and set his pack down.
"Here," he said.
Mogrin knelt too, eyes scanning automatically now. "Big trees. Open run."
"Yes," Vark said. "Good for deer."
Barkhorn Deer.
They'd seen them from above—huge, antlered shapes moving like shadows through the forest, hides ridged and dark like bark. Too fast to ambush easily. Too tough to bring down with one lucky hit.
But they ran.
And goblins endured.
Vark worked quickly, hands steady. He'd been thinking about this hunt since the ration talk started.
From his pack he pulled the spear he'd shaped properly over the last two nights: a straight hardwood shaft, fire-hardened tip reinforced with a sliver of bone lashed tight with sinew and resin. Not pretty. Balanced.
For Mogrin, he produced a sling—not the simple loop he'd used before, but a wider leather cradle stitched from scavenged hide, cords braided tighter for snap and control.
"Better," Mogrin breathed, reverent.
"Yes," Vark said. "But only stone. No shiny."
Mogrin nodded solemnly. "No shiny."
Vark also pulled out two pieces of barkhorn hide he'd cured earlier from scavenged scraps—thick, flexible, still smelling faintly of forest. He fitted one over his shoulder and chest, tying it under the arm. The other he handed to Mogrin like a vest.
Mogrin blinked. "For Mogrin?"
"You alive is better than armor on ground," Vark said.
Mogrin grinned so hard his cheeks hurt.
They moved.
Hunting with two was different than hunting with a group. Quieter. Narrower. Less margin for error.
Mogrin scouted ahead—not running, not climbing unless needed. He'd learned to freeze when birds froze, to listen for the sudden silence that meant something big had moved.
He clicked once, softly.
Vark stopped.
Mogrin pointed—two fingers, then spread wide.
Movement. Big.
They circled downwind.
Vark's lungs burned slowly as they moved faster, careful not to sprint yet. Barkhorn Deer didn't spook like rabbits. They tested threats. They ran when they decided.
They spotted it at the edge of a natural clearing—a massive deer with antlers like gnarled branches, hide dark and ridged, muscles coiled under skin like rope under bark.
It lowered its head, chewing something fibrous, ears flicking.
Vark's heart thudded.
This thing could kill him with one kick.
He felt that clearly.
He also felt something else.
A faint tug, like a thread being pulled tight in his chest—not fear, not instinct exactly. Direction.
He frowned slightly.
The feeling wasn't pointing at the deer.
It was pointing around it.
Vark inhaled slowly.
"Mogrin," he whispered. "When it run—left."
Mogrin blinked. "Why?"
"I… feel," Vark said, uncertain. "Trust."
Mogrin didn't question it.
He adjusted his sling, fingers selecting a stone automatically—flat, dense, not shiny. He tested the weight once, twice, then held.
Vark shifted his spear and stepped forward deliberately, snapping a branch underfoot.
The Barkhorn Deer's head snapped up.
Its eyes locked on Vark.
For a heartbeat, they stared at each other.
Then it bolted.
Not toward Vark.
Exactly as Vark felt—it veered left, thundering through brush, hooves tearing earth.
"Now!" Vark barked.
Mogrin's sling snapped.
The stone flew—not wild, not rushed. It struck the deer's flank with a dull thock.
Not a killing blow.
A message.
The deer bellowed and surged faster.
The chase began.
Vark ran.
Not fast—long.
He didn't try to keep up. He angled, cutting corners, trusting the tug in his chest that shifted and pulled as the deer changed direction. Roots grabbed at his feet. Branches tore at his armor. His lungs burned.
Mogrin ran differently—short bursts, then climbing, then leaping down again ahead of the path, never directly behind.
He called once. A low click.
Right.
Vark adjusted without thinking.
The deer stumbled slightly as its stamina began to fray. Barkhorn Deer were fast—but they weren't endless.
Another stone snapped from Mogrin's sling, this time striking the back leg.
The deer staggered.
Vark closed the distance.
The antlers swung.
He dove, rolling, feeling wind pass where his head had been.
He came up on one knee and drove the spear forward—not into the chest, not deep—but into the thick muscle near the shoulder, where movement mattered most.
The spear bit.
The deer screamed.
It kicked wildly, one hoof slamming into Vark's side and sending him skidding. His armor absorbed the worst of it, but pain flared hot and bright.
Mogrin's third stone struck the base of the antlers.
Not hard.
Perfect.
The deer's head snapped sideways, balance breaking.
Vark surged forward, snarling without realizing it, and drove the spear again—deeper this time, angling toward the heart.
The Barkhorn Deer collapsed in a shuddering heap, breath tearing out of it in wet gasps.
Vark didn't hesitate.
He pulled the spear free and drove it down one final time.
The deer stilled.
Silence rushed in.
Vark's hands shook.
Then the blue window flared.
Barkhorn Deer — Killed+30 EXP
He staggered back a step, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes.
Mogrin whooped once—too loud—then clamped a hand over his mouth and giggled silently.
"You did good," Vark rasped.
"You felt left," Mogrin said, eyes bright. "You right."
"I… think so," Vark said.
As the adrenaline faded, something shifted in his mind.
That tug—still there, faint but clearer now. Like a sense he hadn't learned how to name yet.
Another window appeared, smaller, quieter.
New Skill Acquired:Gut-Thread (Faint)You sense directional danger and opportunity when focused.
Vark stared at it.
Not magic words. Not spells.
A description of what he'd just done.
His stomach fluttered—not fear this time.
Recognition.
They worked quickly, methodical.
Vark skinned while Mogrin kept watch, eyes scanning canopy and ground, calling softly when birds shifted. The hide came off thick and clean. Antler fragments were cut carefully. Meat was packed tight.
Vark crafted as they worked.
He trimmed barkhorn hide into fitted plates—chest and shoulder for himself, reinforced vest and arm wrap for Mogrin. Antler shards were shaped into barbed tips, lashed onto spare shafts for throwing spears. Sinew made cord. Resin sealed knots.
When they finished, they looked… dangerous.
Not strong.
Prepared.
They started back toward the lake-side route carefully, burdened but steady.
The Gut-Thread tugged again—soft, insistent.
Vark slowed.
"What?" Mogrin whispered.
"Something wrong," Vark said.
They moved forward anyway—slow, eyes sharp.
At the edge of the restricted shore, where roots met wet sand, something glinted faintly in the mud.
Mogrin froze.
"Shiny," he breathed.
Vark stepped closer.
Half-buried in silt, freshly washed up, was a small metal coin or charm—human-made. Clean. New. Not rusted.
Recent.
His stomach dropped.
Humans were near the lake.
Again.
Vark closed his fingers around the charm and felt cold metal bite his palm.
"Back," he said quietly.
Mogrin nodded.
They turned toward the trees, the weight of meat and armor suddenly feeling much heavier.
Behind them, the reeds whispered.
And somewhere far off, something moved in the water.