Days passed. Each one marked by the clash of blade, the crackle of brush, and the relentless rhythm of footsteps through undergrowth. Lyra fought every day, sparring with beasts across the forest's fringe—wild boars, snakes, forest cats, and the occasional territorial bird large enough to challenge her resolve.
She no longer hesitated. Her strikes became faster, more precise. Her movements, though not yet graceful, were efficient. She fell, she bled, she rose again. And each time, she learned.
"You're starting to think ahead," Noxy said after one brutal skirmish. "You manage to read its movement. You dodged before it charged."
"You say that like I didn't get knocked down twice," Lyra muttered, wiping sweat from her brow.
"And yet you stood up a third time. That's the only thing that matters."
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That evening, as she knelt by the fire in her makeshift camp, Lyra dug into her satchel and frowned. Her food pouch was nearly empty, and the bandages she used to wrap her arm had dwindled to a few last strips.
"We're low on everything," she murmured.
"Then it's time for your next lesson," Noxy said. "Survival isn't just about the blade. It's about resourcefulness. You've hunted. Now you'll learn to make use of what you bring down."
And so the lessons shifted.
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Under Noxy's guidance, Lyra learned to process the corpses of the animals she had hunted. It began with skinning—a process she found both distasteful and humbling. Noxy explained each motion carefully: how to make the initial incisions, how to pull the hide without tearing, how to avoid the scent glands or bile sacs that would spoil the meat.
"Don't just cut," Noxy said as Lyra fumbled with a rabbit. "Feel the layers. Skin, fat, muscle—each separates differently. Use the knife only when your fingers can't."
Eventually, she grew accustomed to the task. She cleaned pelts and stretched them to dry. She learned to carve meat into thin strips and smoke them over low flames, preserving them for days. Bones became tools—arrowheads, needles, even fishing hooks. She braided animal sinew into strong thread and fashioned cordage for snares.
"Waste is death in places like this," Noxy reminded her. "Everything has a second purpose. Find it."
But perhaps the greatest shift in her survival training came when her tinctures ran dry.
"We need medicine," Lyra said one night, staring at a shallow but painful gash on her thigh.
"Then you'll have to make it yourself," Noxy replied. "This forest is old. It knows how to heal if you know how to ask."
So began her herbal lessons.
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Each morning, Noxy led her on foraging paths through the woods. They stopped at fallen logs, beside brooks, within shaded groves, seeking herbs and roots hidden in plain sight. Feverstem, with its pale silver-veined leaves, became her first friend—crushed into a poultice to reduce fever and draw out infection. She learned to peel redroot and soak it in hot water to relieve pain.
"Mooncap," Noxy pointed out one twilight, gesturing to a ring of luminous white mushrooms. "Crush the cap and steep it. It soothes fever and quiets tremors. But never eat it raw. That's poison."
Lyra carried a small knife, a pestle, and several small clay vials she'd salvaged from a broken pack. She labeled them with bits of bark etched with symbols—symbols she didn't remember learning, yet her hand traced them with certainty.
"Some plants look identical," Noxy warned one afternoon as Lyra held up two stalks. "But this one purifies. The other kills. Never harvest in doubt. Always verify."
Lyra sketched diagrams in her journal—leaf patterns, petal colors, root shapes—and cross-referenced them with how her body felt after each brew. Bitterness was often a good sign. Sweetness, she learned, was dangerous more often than not.
But the forest did not only offer healing.
"Some herbs aren't for mending," Noxy said one evening, her voice low. "Some are for defense. Others for offense."
They found a patch of venomfruit—small, deep purple berries with a metallic sheen.
"One drop can paralyze a man's arm for an hour. More, and they may never wake."
There were roots that numbed pain instantly when chewed—useful, but addictive. Leaves that could blur vision and confuse the mind. Thorned vines whose sap, once dried, became a poison potent enough to coat a blade.
"I'm not going to poison people," Lyra said with a frown.
"Perhaps not. But others might not hesitate to do the same to you. The world doesn't wait for innocence to catch up."
She practiced under Noxy's supervision, brewing both cures and toxins, learning the ratios and timings. A pinch too much, and a sleeping draught became a death sentence. A drop too little, and the medicine might as well be water.
"This one's for numbing pain," Lyra murmured one night, labeling a vial with charcoal. "This one lowers fever. This one… paralyzes."
"Good," Noxy said. "And do you remember the antidote for the last one?"
"Boiled spikeleaf. Three leaves, no more."
"Very good."
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By the end of the week, Lyra's satchel no longer only carried coins or idle trinkets. It held salves, vials, dried herbs, hand-carved tools, and strips of cured meat. Her fingers bore cuts and sap stains, and her eyes had grown sharper—watching not just for enemies, but for opportunity.
And each night, as she sat near her fire, forest creatures stirring just beyond the ring of light, she felt the forest shifting.
It was no longer simply a place to pass through.
It had become a teacher.
And she, its willing student—silent, learning, changing.
Preparing for what waited deeper within.