The air grew cooler, carrying the damp scent of moss and wet stone as they approached the base of the Water Mountain. The constant, pervasive sound of cascading water, a low roar from unseen heights, echoed down its verdant, pine-studded slopes. Towering pines, their ancient roots gripping moss-covered rocks, created a tranquil, almost sacred atmosphere, a stark contrast to the menacing gloom of Anansi's Forest. Leonotis craned his neck, marveling at the sheer, intimidating size of their destination, its peak lost in a swirl of low-hanging cloud. A palpable sense of anticipation, of nearing a vital threshold, radiated from Jacqueline; the destination of her months-long, sorrowful quest was finally close, infusing her movements with a new, almost urgent grace. Low, ever vigilant, moved with a hunter's quiet tread, her eyes constantly scanning the dense surrounding foliage, her hand never straying far from the smooth, heavy throwing stones tucked into her belt.
Their peaceful, if wary, ascent was shattered without a whisper of warning. From behind a cluster of ancient, lichen-covered boulders that flanked the narrow path, figures erupted with a sudden, brutal efficiency. Three of them, clad in mismatched, roughspun leather armor and bearing an assortment of blades, heavy cudgels, and precisely aimed crossbows, moved with the practiced, predatory coordination of a seasoned wolf pack. Their eyes, hard as river stones and glinting with undisguised avarice, locked onto Leonotis with chilling focus.
"Well, well, well," a gruff voice sneered. The speaker was a burly man, his face a roadmap of old scars, one eye milky and blind, the other keenly fixed on Leonotis. His crossbow was aimed squarely at the boy's chest, steady and unwavering. "Look what the tide finally dragged in. Heard whispers in Stylwater of a little green sprout causing some... disturbances." He gestured with his chin towards Leonotis, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "That's him, ain't it? Matches the pretty little sketches the King's men are papering every tavern with."
Another bounty hunter, lean and wiry with a nervous tic at the corner of his mouth and a cruel, thin-lipped smile, produced a crumpled, dirt-stained piece of parchment. He smoothed it out with a grimy thumb – a crude but recognizable drawing depicting a boy with unruly dark hair and a root-sword. The price scrawled beneath the drawing in bold, official script was surprisingly, shockingly high. "The verdant little weed himself," the wiry man rasped, his voice like dry leaves skittering over stone. "Seems King Rega's offering a king's ransom for your unique talents, boy. Dead or alive, though alive pays better."
Recognition, cold and sharp, dawned on Leonotis, a knot of pure dread tightening in his stomach. Wanted posters. He hadn't even considered that his desperate display of magic at the orphanage auction might have consequences that rippled this far, that made him prey.
Jacqueline's eyes flashed with a sudden, incandescent fury. "Get away from us!" she commanded, her voice, usually soft, now ringing with an unexpected authority. Her hands, already beginning to glow with a faint, pulsing blue luminescence, clenched into fists as water droplets beaded in the air around her, coalescing into shimmering, unstable orbs.
Low, her stance already low and ready, had palmed two of her sharpest, flint-edged stones before the first bounty hunter had even finished speaking. The tranquil mountain base, moments before a haven of green and stone, had instantly transformed into a scene of imminent, deadly violence. The hunt, it seemed, had finally found its quarry.
The bounty hunters moved with a practiced, brutal efficiency that spoke of countless captures, of lives ruined for coin. Before Leonotis could even summon his nascent green magic, a net of thick, dark fibers – magically reinforced, he realized with a sinking heart – dropped over him with startling, suffocating speed. It tangled his limbs, knocked the root-sword from his grasp, and stifled his cry of alarm. Rough hands, calloused and strong as iron bands, hauled him off his feet, the world tilting crazily as he was dragged like a caught animal.
Jacqueline's reaction was immediate and explosive. A cry of pure rage, a sound more elemental than human, tore from her throat, and the very air around her shimmered and crackled with power. Water, drawn from unseen springs within the mountain, from the damp earth, from the moisture in the air itself, erupted in a swirling, furious torrent. It lashed out at the bounty hunters like a colossal, enraged serpent, the sheer force of the water blast knocking two of them – the wiry one and a third, hulking brute – off their feet, sending them sprawling and gasping amongst the slick, rocky terrain. Geysers of water shot upwards from the ground, creating a chaotic, disorienting screen of hissing spray and churning mist.
"Let him go!" Jacqueline's voice was a raw, thundering command, laced with the untamed power of the ocean. Her blue eyes blazed with an icy fire. But even as her magic created pandemonium, throwing the ambush into disarray, a different, more calculating glint flickered deep within those stormy eyes. The mountain, the shrine, the urgent, echoing call of her destiny – her true purpose lay upwards, towards the whispered promises of ancient, forgotten power. The capture of the boy, while infuriating, presented an undeniable, stark opportunity. With the bounty hunters momentarily disoriented, their attention divided, the steep path upwards, towards the shrine, was clear.
Without a word, without a single backward glance at the struggling, netted Leonotis or the furious, embattled Low, Jacqueline turned. Her form, wreathed in the swirling mists of her own conjuration, seemed to melt into the rugged landscape. Her movements were fluid and impossibly swift, like a creature of water and air perfectly adapted to the unforgiving terrain. She scaled the treacherous rocks with an almost ethereal grace, the spray from her own diminishing water magic seeming to propel her upwards, away from the chaos, away from them. Her focus was singular, absolute: the shrine.
Low watched Jacqueline's swift, silent departure through the dissipating mist, her jaw tight with a fury that burned hotter and more bitter than any fire elemental's magic. Betrayal, sharp and unexpected, clawed at her throat, leaving a taste like ash. They had fought together, shared their meager meals, even, tentatively, begun to trust. And now, at the first real sign of overwhelming trouble, Jacqueline had abandoned them, prioritizing her own selfish, mysterious quest over their lives. The memory of Jacqueline's earlier pronouncements about solitude and self-reliance now seemed less like philosophical musings and more like a cold, calculated justification.
Her gaze then snapped back to Leonotis, who was struggling futilely in the constricting net, his face pale with a mixture of fear and dawning despair as the bounty hunters, recovering with grim speed, tightened their hold, dragging him towards their horses. The sight of his helplessness, his vulnerability, coupled with Jacqueline's callous abandonment, solidified Low's decision in a heartbeat. Caution, the ingrained survival instinct that had kept her alive through the harsh, unforgiving years at the orphanage, warred briefly, desperately, with a burgeoning, unfamiliar loyalty, a fierce, almost maternal protectiveness she hadn't realized she possessed for the exasperating, magic-wielding boy.
Loyalty, raw and unexpected, won.
Ignoring the lingering, chilling spray of Jacqueline's magic and the overwhelming danger posed by the regrouping bounty hunters, Low launched herself forward. Her small frame moved with an explosive burst of speed, a miniature whirlwind of focused fury, her eyes fixed on Leonotis. Jacqueline might prioritize her sacred mountain, but Low would prioritize the boy who had, in his own clumsy, earnest way, offered her a glimpse of something beyond the cold, brutal indifference of the world she knew. She wouldn't let these thugs take him without a fight, even if it meant facing them utterly, hopelessly alone. Her heart hammered in her chest, a furious, defiant drumbeat against the backdrop of the rushing water from the distant falls and the silent, rapidly receding figure of Jacqueline, already a mere smudge against the vast, uncaring face of the Water Mountain.
Roughspun rope, thick and abrasive, bit into Leonotis's wrists, digging deeper with each frustrated twitch and pull. The bounty hunters, smelling of stale sweat, cheap ale, and something metallic he didn't want to identify, had trussed him like a particularly troublesome wild pig, his arms yanked painfully behind his back. He strained against the bonds, his nascent green magic thrumming urgently beneath his skin, a desperate, almost frantic urge to unleash a crippling tangle of binding vines, to turn the very earth against his captors. Nothing happened; his root-sword, his conduit, his focus, had been sent flying during the initial struggle, lost somewhere in the muddy chaos. Without it, he realized with a fresh wave of despair, he couldn't channel the green power, not with any precision. He was a mage without his staff, a warrior without his blade. He stretched out his bound palms as much as the ropes allowed, pressing them against the damp, gritty earth, hoping to find even a stray twig, a fallen leaf, anything to connect with.
"Trying something special, little sprout?" A gruff voice chuckled nearby, laced with a knowing cruelty. The bounty hunter who had first accosted them, the burly one with the scarred face and the dead eye, sauntered closer. A flickering, malevolent orange glow, like captive fireflies, danced in his calloused palm. "Heard you green mages like to sprout roots from your fingertips. Can't have you getting any bright ideas before we collect our coin, now can we?"
Before Leonotis could react, could even fully process the threat, the hunter lashed out with his magically ignited hand. A searing wave of intense heat washed over Leonotis's outstretched, vulnerable palms. He cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound of pure agony, the acrid smell of burnt flesh and singed hair filling the air. The fire, though mercifully brief, had done its devastating work. A raw, agonizing throb pulsed through both his hands, the delicate skin blistered and blackened. The intricate, unseen channels through which his magic flowed felt scorched, seared, useless. The vital connection to the green energy within him felt severed, muffled by an impenetrable wall of fiery pain.
Despair, absolute and crushing, threatened to engulf him. He was helpless, utterly at their mercy. But even beneath the overwhelming waves of pain and fear, a tiny, desperate spark of cunning, of Gethii's and Low's ingrained survival instincts, somehow ignited. He might not be able to wield his magic directly, not anymore, but perhaps… perhaps there was another way to fight back, a more subtle method.
His teeth clamped down hard on his lower lip, the sharp, grounding pain a welcome, albeit grim, distraction from the screaming agony in his hands. He bit harder, tasting the familiar, metallic tang of blood as it welled up, warm and slick. Keeping his face as passive as he could manage, contorting his agony into what he hoped looked like stoic resignation, he subtly shifted his weight, allowing small, almost invisible droplets of his blood to escape his lip, to fall silently, one by one, onto the dusty, leaf-strewn ground beneath him. He remembered Low's uncanny ability to track him in Anansi's Forest. He could only pray that his blood, too, carried a scent unique enough, strong enough, for her strange, heightened senses to discern. The pain in his hands was a constant, blinding, agonizing reminder of his helplessness, but these tiny crimson droplets, seeping unseen into the unforgiving earth, were now his only fragile hope.
Low moved through the dense undergrowth like a shadow, her small frame surprisingly agile, almost supernaturally silent amidst the tangled roots and fallen leaves. The bounty hunters, now mounted on a pair of sturdy, ill-tempered packhorses they'd had tethered nearby, had made little effort to conceal their trail, confident in their capture and likely dismissive of any pursuit from a lone girl. Low, who had never had much love for the outdoors, having spent most of her childhood navigating the concrete wilderness of the orphanage, now found herself moving with the instincts of a seasoned tracker. She kept them just within sight, a silent, vengeful predator observing its prey.
Then she smelled it, cutting through the damp, earthy aroma of the forest floor. A faint, almost negligible metallic tang on the cool mountain air, barely perceptible at first, even to her. Blood. Her senses, still preternaturally heightened from the adrenaline of the fight and something else, something new and unfamiliar stirring within her, locked onto it. As she drew closer, careful to stay downwind, the metallic note intensified, becoming sharper, more distinct, carrying with it an undercurrent that made her breath catch. It was a scent she now recognized with chilling certainty, a unique, vital signature she hadn't consciously registered as such before, but now knew with an absolute, gut-wrenching conviction. Leonotis.
A knot of cold, hard dread tightened in her stomach, quickly followed by a white-hot surge of protectiveness, fierce and utterly unfamiliar, that flooded through her veins. They hadn't just captured him; they had *hurt* him. Leonotis, the impulsive, magic-wielding, often infuriating pest who had somehow, against all her better judgment, wormed his way into her reluctant, fiercely guarded sense of responsibility. The thought of him injured, vulnerable, at the mercy of those brutes, ignited a cold, dangerous fire within her that she hadn't known she possessed.
Along with the protectiveness came that other sensation again, the strange and exhilarating thrum of heightened awareness, of latent power. Her senses sharpened further, almost painfully. The rustle of leaves far ahead, the distant, mournful cry of a hawk circling overhead, the almost inaudible creak of leather from the bounty hunters' saddles – each sound was amplified, preternaturally clear. Her muscles felt coiled and ready, a vibrant, restless strength thrumming beneath her skin. The memory of wrestling with the orphanage bullies for scraps of food, the constant, gnawing hunger, the sheer, grinding effort of daily survival – it all felt strangely distant now, as if she were viewing her past, weaker self through a hazy, distorting lens. Now, she felt lighter, quicker, imbued with a newfound, almost feral power she couldn't explain but embraced without hesitation.
The trail, marked by the scent of Leonotis's blood and the careless passage of the horses, led to a small, sun-dappled clearing. One of the bounty hunters, the burly man with the scarred face and dead eye Low now recognized as Borin, sat carelessly on a fallen log, a crude, heavy crossbow resting across his lap. Leonotis was slumped against a tree opposite him, his hands bound tightly with rough rope, his head bowed in apparent defeat. Low's breath hitched. Even from this distance, she could see the dark, angry stains on the ropes around his wrists, the raw, blistered skin of his palms that spoke of fire. A silent, vicious snarl formed in her throat. They would regret that. The surge of newfound strength intensified, and Low knew, with a chilling, absolute certainty, that she wouldn't hesitate to make them pay, to make them understand the terrible mistake they had made.
***
The flickering torchlight, held by Kell – the wiry bounty hunter with the jagged scar across his cheek – cast long, dancing shadows that writhed across Leonotis's bound form and Borin's impassive face. The third hunter, the one with the scarred visage who had threatened Leonotis with the crossbow earlier, was rifling through their saddlebags, his movements quick and efficient. He grunted, pulling out a crumpled, older piece of parchment.
"Hey, Kell," the scarred man called out, his voice a low growl. He held up the poster, its edges tattered. "Lookie what else we got here, from that last notice board in Stylwater. Seems our little green sprout ain't the only potential prize wandering these mountains."
Kell, who had been prodding Leonotis's burned hands with a detached, clinical interest, straightened up and squinted at the offered paper. It was older than Leonotis's poster, the ink faded in places, the parchment softened with age and damp. The sketch depicted a figure with long, flowing hair, delicate features, and a vaguely regal, almost ethereal bearing – unmistakably Jacqueline. Beneath it, the title read: "Wanted: Jacqueline of the Sunken City – For Burglary of Royal Artifacts and Evasion of Imperial Tithes." The bounty listed was surprisingly, almost insultingly, small – a mere fifty silver pieces.
Kell scoffed, tossing the poster back contemptuously. "A burglar? Fifty silver? That's barely worth the trouble of hauling her back to the nearest magistrate, let alone tracking her up this gods-forsaken mountain. Probably some pampered brat who stole her mother's jewelry."
"Easy catch though, eh?" the scarred man grinned, revealing a row of stained, broken teeth. "A dainty little sea-sprite like that, hiking all alone up a treacherous mountain trail. Like catching a flopping trout in a bucket." He eyed the towering, mist-shrouded peak of Water Mountain. "She headed up there, right? Figured she'd be safe among the clouds and waterfalls?"
Kell nodded, his gaze lingering for a moment on the distant, almost invisible figure of Jacqueline, who had been a small, rapidly ascending speck against the grey rock face before vanishing into the higher mists. "Looks that way. Fifty silver ain't much, you're right, Borok," he said, finally naming the scarred man. "But she's alone, and probably not expecting pursuit for such a paltry sum. Two of us can grab her quick, make it a bonus, and be back down before this little greenie here causes any more trouble, or before someone else stumbles on her." He nudged Leonotis none-too-gently with a heavy boot. "You stay put, mage-boy. Or you'll be missing more than just your freedom and the skin on your hands."
Borok grinned again, a predatory, greedy gleam in his one good eye. "Right then. Let's go snag ourselves a runaway princess, or whatever she is. You keep a close eye on the sprout and the nags, Big Man," he said to the hulking, silent brute who had been watching Leonotis with dull menace.
The hulking brute, Borin, merely grunted in acknowledgement, settling down more comfortably with his back against a saddle, his heavy-lidded gaze fixed on Leonotis with unwavering, dull menace.
With a final, dismissive glance at their captive, Kell and Borok (the scarred man) started their ascent up the winding mountain path, their figures soon swallowed by the rugged terrain and encroaching shadows. Leonotis watched them go, a cold dread settling in his stomach, quickly followed by a surge of desperate urgency. He was alone with Borin, a brute who looked like he enjoyed cracking rocks with his bare hands for amusement, and Jacqueline, despite her abandonment, was heading into unknown dangers with two determined, ruthless bounty hunters on her tail.
Borin, grunted his acknowledgement. He settled his considerable bulk down with his back against a rough-hewn saddle, his gaze fixed on Leonotis with a dull, unwavering menace, as if the boy were a particularly uninteresting but potentially troublesome insect. He picked at something lodged in his yellowed teeth with a grimy fingernail, the picture of overconfident indolence.
With a final, dismissive glance at their captive, Kell and the scarred man (Borok, though Leonotis didn't know his name, only the cruel set of his mouth) started their ascent up the winding, treacherous mountain path. Their figures, laden with weapons, were soon swallowed by the rugged terrain and the encroaching, misty gloom of the higher altitudes. Leonotis watched them go, a cold dread settling like a stone in his stomach. He was alone, his hands agonizingly burned, at the mercy of a brute who looked like he enjoyed cracking rocks with his bare hands for casual amusement. And Jacqueline, despite her desertion, was heading into unknown dangers with two determined, ruthless bounty hunters on her tail. The weight of it all felt crushing.