Kale moved silently through the forest, his breath steady and shallow. He was here to hunt—not just for food, but for survival. Threads of golden light coiled faintly at the edges of his vision, guiding him forward like invisible hands nudging him toward his prey.
One thread pulsed stronger than the others, curling around a dense bush thick with leaves and pungent with sap. Kale understood immediately—this wasn't just any bush. It masked scent. The Ocean had shown him this trick before, but never had it felt so urgent.
Because the beast he was hunting was no ordinary animal. It was the Ironhide Boar—a creature known across the region for its near-impenetrable fur, powerful charge, and an uncanny sense of smell that could track a human from miles away. Hunters feared it. Trappers avoided it. But Kale needed it. If he succeeded, the meat alone would last him days. Its hide could be fashioned into warmer clothing, something he desperately needed when winter crept closer.
The Ocean guided him step by step. A flicker of gold light pointed to a nearby clearing—a perfect place to set the trap. Kale dropped to his knees, hands working fast. Visions from the Ocean replayed in his mind: how to tie rope to root, how to bend sticks into stakes, how to use weight and pressure to trigger collapse. He followed each instruction without question, trusting the knowledge embedded in his instincts.
When the trap was set, another thread shimmered ahead, showing him where to hide—beneath a low-hanging branch, behind a wall of moss-covered stone. He crouched there, heart pounding, eyes locked on the path ahead.
This wasn't just about food anymore. If he pulled this off, he wouldn't need to beg tomorrow. Or the next day. The Ocean whispered of future hunts, of better techniques, of paths that led beyond hunger and cold. For now, though, he focused.
He didn't always rely on begging, but sometimes, when the forest offered nothing, he had no choice. That's how life had been since the beginning—sometimes he hunted, sometimes he begged, sometimes he sold what little he caught. Small animals brought coins, enough for bread or milk. Enough to keep going.
But the Ironhide Boar? That was different.
It stepped into the clearing slowly, cautiously. Its body was massive, thick with muscle and bristling fur that looked almost metallic under the dappled sunlight. Its nostrils flared, sniffing the air, searching for danger. Kale held his breath.
Then, the trap triggered.
A thunderous crash rang out as the ground gave way beneath the boar's weight. It bellowed in fury, thrashing against the woven vines and sharpened stakes that pinned its legs. Kale didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, frost already crawling along his fingers.
If he survived this, if he managed to bring it down cleanly, he wouldn't just eat tonight—he'd have enough to trade, enough to breathe easier for days.
And maybe, just maybe, the Ocean was telling him he was ready for more than survival.