Once I reached the stream, I immediately slumped onto a boulder, my paws quivering faintly. The warm morning sunlight filtered through the forest foliage, yet I still hugged myself, shivering. I stared at the dark crimson blood staining my forearms. Some of it had already dried to a rusty brown, almost blending into my fur.

  Maybe I could have just wounded him or scared him away. But he’d come at me with that axe of his, wouldn’t he? I keep telling myself it was self-defence. Goblins are supposed to be dangerous monsters. Does that really matter, though? I’d taken the life of a thinking creature, and done it so efficiently, almost on autopilot, kudos to an adrenaline rush. On one hand, I felt justified. On the other hand, I wanted to throw up. Both feelings seemed wrong, superficial, as if they missed their mark. I thought I could just shake off my pacifism in this new life. Turns out, it’s not that simple. This isn’t a video game.

  I drew slow breaths, counting to three until my heartbeat steadied. Around me, my campfire lay in ruins, stomped out by clawed feet. The tracks led right to the bushes where I’d emerged from minutes ago. My ears pressed flat. For years, I’d been following the twin dimples of deer hooves, the whisper-soft pockets left by rabbit paws, yet it never even occurred to me someone could follow my own trail just as easily.

  That’s how the goblin found me! He followed broken twigs and the footsteps I’d left behind with such carelessness. I scanned the ground, sorting through overlapping footprints. At least six different sets of clawed footprints had passed through. I was extraordinarily lucky that only one goblin made it to my shelter. This was a harsh lesson, scrawled in mud and blood.

  From now on, I should travel over rocky terrain whenever I can. I’ll also cross streams in different places to help hide my trail. There are other ways to cover my tracks, like literally sweeping them away behind me, but doing that every day in the forest isn’t practical. Still, it’s good to remember if I’m being chased. For the last stretch of the path to my new shelter, maybe I can sweep my trail. For now, I pushed my blood-stained fur into the cold water and scrubbed until the red washed away.

  I spent an hour of daylight washing and drying off. Then I checked the traps I set a day before and, fortunately, found two adult rabbits. It’s so strange that I don’t feel as guilty about breaking the rabbit’s neck as I did about killing that goblin. Rabbits are pretty smart. Is it because goblins look more like people, they are humanoid? Or maybe I’m just used to hunting rabbits at this point. How do we decide when to feel guilty and when not to? I wonder if animals have souls, perhaps smaller ones that grow till they reincarnate into people. Absorbed in these thoughts, I moved further into the forest, following the stream to a clearing full of tall grass and wildflowers.

  Three massive boulders dominated the clearing, looming like ancient sentinels in the tall grass. I circled the tallest and gazed upward. My claws scraped the rough stone as I searched for a grip, then another. It was too steep and slick to climb, which was ideal. The top looked flat enough to sprawl out on, even to set up a campfire.

  I gathered fallen pine branches that snapped under my feet, sending their sharp, resinous scent into the air. Using my hunting knife, I cut down two young birch trees. The blade sank into the pale bark with each hit. From these, I fashioned a crude but sturdy ladder, sacrificing the last of my rope. After climbing up and pulling the ladder with me, I found enough space for a real camp. The stone was still warm from the day, even as the air cooled. I skinned and cooked the rabbits over a small fire. Their fat sizzled as it hit the flames. After eating, exhaustion pulled me under. I fell asleep almost immediately to the sound of insects. My body finally gave in to tiredness.

  However, my comfort wouldn’t last, as a loud, booming voice woke me the next morning. “Hey, you, up there! You know those are sacred stones you’re sleeping on top of, right?”

  "Huh?" My heart jumped as I scrambled to my feet, claws scraping the stone. What is it with this forest? It feels as crowded as downtown during rush hour. Too many people! I looked over the edge and froze at the sight below. There stood a centaur, or rather, a horsekin, as they’re called in this world. His huge chestnut haunches shone with sweat. Instead of a racing stallion’s build, his lower half looked like that of a draft horse. Light copper-colored fetlocks brushed the dewy grass.

  Where horse met man, tanned skin continued over to arms corded with muscle built by years of labor. A faded patchwork shirt stretched across his shoulders. Its threads were fraying at the seams, and a wide straw hat cast a shade across his frowning eyes. Every inch of his equine back was loaded with leather saddlebags, rolls of fabric tied with twine, and even small wooden crates that clinked with each shift of his weight. I loosened my grip on my knife. No way in hell he’s climbing this rock with all that cargo. I was definitely safe, at least for now.

  “Sorry,” I stammered, my tail instinctively tucked between my legs. “I didn’t see any signs or offerings. I’m in the middle of my rite of passage and got attacked by a goblin yesterday. This was the only safe place I could find.”

  “A wolfkin pup, huh?” His weathered face creased as he squinted up at me. He sniffed the air and scanned the tree line for some reason. His big hooves shifted nervously in the wet grass. “Look,” he said, adjusting a leather pouch on his side. “These stones aren’t owned by any one clan, and I suppose they’re more ceremonial than sacred. As long as you’re respectful and clean up after yourself, I’ll let it slide.”

  His tone mellowed as he continued. “I won’t get in the way of your rite, unless…” A smile cracked through his face, revealing surprisingly white teeth. “Want to trade? You can’t accept help, but trading is as much a skill as hunting. If you can do both, your elders will surely see how much you’ve grown.”

  I sniffed the air and only smelled horse sweat and leather oil. My ears flicked, listening for any hint of companions hiding in the brush. His saddlebags bulged with goods, the leather worn from years of trading. It seemed safe to trade my rabbit pelts. Uncle Flo’s things were off-limits, but the pelts were mine.

  “Alright,” I called down. “Just a moment.” I lowered the ladder. It hit the ground with a slap. My javelin bumped awkwardly against my spine as I secured it across my back. The hunting knife’s heft pressed against my hip, the same place it rested all night. I descended with the pelts tucked under one arm. Their fur shone in the morning light. “These are fresh,” I said, extending them toward him. “Interested?”

  The horsekin’s eyes lit up as he examined the pelts. “Clean work with these rabbits. You used a trap, right? Not many beginners can skin them without tearing.” He pulled a small cloth sack from his saddlebag. “I’ll trade you this flour. It might not be a going rate, but out here in the wild, prices always favor the merchant.” He stamped a hoof for emphasis. “Mix it with water and cook it on a hot stone for flatbread. You’ll need more than just meat to keep your strength up in these woods.” He pointed at some broad green leaves growing nearby. “See those? Eat them if you’re recovering from a wound. And look for tubers or edible roots every few days. You can’t live on hunting alone.”

  I blinked, surprised. He actually understood basic nutritional science. In my old world, everyone knew about proteins, carbs, fats, fiber, vitamins, and minerals. Here, that kind of knowledge was rare. People knew a varied diet was good, but not why. I looked at the leaves he pointed out. Sure enough, they looked like spinach, probably full of iron and good for anemia. After two days of just meat and mushrooms, I was getting tired faster than usual. My body was lacking carbs.

  I scratched behind my ear. “I’m Zar,” I said, nodding at the flour. “I’ll trade one pelt for the sack, and your wise advice can be payment for the other pelt.”

  The horsekin laughed, deep and loud, as he handed me the flour. His calloused hands dwarfed mine considerably. “Ancair,” he replied, tipping his straw hat. His eyes folded in amusement as he looked me over. “You’ve got a merchant’s mind in that wolf skull. Not many of your kind trade, but it happens.” He pointed west. “I have a stall in Borfort, third row, under the blue awning. I travel between there and the clan territories in the Valley every few months. If you want to be a merchant, come find me. I could use a smart two-legged apprentice.”

  I nodded politely. “I’m still figuring out what I want to do, but your offer means a lot. I’ll think about it.”

  “Well, whatever you decide,” he said, “I’ll be there, whether you’re a customer or a prospective apprentice. Two days from now, I’ll be passing through here again. Bring more pelts if you’ve got them.”

  With that, we parted ways. After Ancair disappeared between the pines, I hid my ladder under a large enough bush, its thorns catching on my fur. The day settled into a familiar rhythm: listening for prey or danger, numbing my fingers in icy water as I filled my waterskin, then boiling it with hot stones. By midday, I spotted another plump pheasant and brought it down with my javelin. Back at camp, I made flatbread on a hot stone and even mixed in a little spinach. When I bit into the pheasant, juices ran down my chin, and the gamey meat paired perfectly with the bread's hearty chew. The following two days passed in blessed quiet, the forest canopy shifting from emerald to amber as sunlight filtered through, with no sign of goblins lurking in the shadows.

  On my seventh and last day in the Sleeping Valley, the end of my rite of passage, I hit a snag, however. I had already imagined coming home by sundown, showing off a perfect set of antlers, soft deerskin, and a handful of coins from selling those meticulously prepared rabbit pelts to Ancair… only to end up crouching behind a knotted tree, hiding from a completely new group of enemies.

  Through gaps in tall greenery, a distraught picture revealed itself, Ancair, his massive equine body rearing in panic, surrounded by five humans in mismatched leather armor that hung loosely on their bony frames. Each one held a weapon: rusty short swords, a notched woodcutter's axe, and a hook-tipped spear. Their faces were hidden behind filthy scarves wrapped haphazardly, revealing only bloodshot eyes darting nervously between their prize and the forest around them. One wore a battered and scratched pot for a helmet, and another had animal teeth on his chest piece in some primitive attempt at intimidation. They looked so absurdly like stereotypical bandits, I almost wanted to laugh. The metallic scent of fresh blood quickly sobered me up, though.

  Blood stained Ancair’s torn shirt at the shoulder, and more darkened his horse's body. I hid in the bushes, watching as they tied his wrists with rough rope that cut into his skin. When they pulled him east, he stumbled, his hooves catching on roots. I followed quietly, staying low with my javelin ready. Every so often, I stopped, hoping they’d split up and give me a chance to act.

  Suddenly, a hand grabbed my muzzle, fingers pressing into my fur and pulling me backward. My heart jumped. I hadn’t heard any footsteps or smelled anything out of place. It seemed impossible. My muscles tightened as my mind went into overdrive to recall an appropriate defensive move. I shifted my hips and swung my free arm as hard as I could at where my attacker’s groin should be. The hit landed with a loud thud. At the same time, my other hand tried to seize my attacker’s wrist. I coiled, ready to whirl around for a follow-up attack when he spoke.

  “Ffffuuuh,” a familiar voice wheezed in my ear. "Calm down, it’s me, Florent."

  My eyes widened at the familiar silhouette. “Uncle Flo?”

  He bent over, one paw on his groin and the other on my shoulder. "Damn kid," he said through clenched teeth, his amber eyes watering, "that was a good reflex. I almost howled loud enough to wake the dead." He adjusted the weathered leather strap across his chest, which held pouches of herbs and throwing knives. Then he crouched and motioned for me to do the same. "Your rite is over, you pass, congratulations." His voice dropped. "Now, let’s save this merchant. I hope you weren’t planning to do it alone."

  I flattened my ears, feeling the heat of embarrassment beneath my fur. "I was, but only if it was going to be a one-on-one fight," I said quietly, tracing a claw in the dirt. "I’m not stupid."

  "Yes, you demonstrated patience and diligence this week. I know you’re not stupid, but even a one-on-one fight with a hungry adult peasant is risky at your age. Now cut the chatter, we prowl silently behind them."

  “Wait, how do you know this? Were you following me all this time?”

  “Cut. The. Chatter.”

  I bit my tongue, though I’d definitely point out later that he was the chattier one between us. Had he doubled back to check on me? He couldn’t have known where I was camping. No way this was a coincidence. He must have been shadowing me this entire time. I never caught a whiff of his scent once. Uncle Flo was even more skilled than I'd thought. We stalked the bandits for over an hour until they reached a tall hill. As we circled around it, we saw a cave entrance with another scruffy bandit standing guard. The group disappeared inside.

  "This complicates things," Uncle Flo whispered, his muzzle close to my ear. "We don’t know how many are inside or the cave’s layout. We’ll wait until night, when they’re asleep, and I’ll scout ahead." He took a pouch from his belt, poured something into his canteen, and handed it to me. "You’re too excited to sleep, so drink this. It’ll keep you awake for a day, maybe two. We’ll go over the plan while we wait."

  I sniffed the canteen he gave me. The scent hit my nostrils like a slap, raw ginger's fiery cousin mixed with something distinctly herbal. I tipped the liquid into my mouth, and my eyes immediately dampened, a trail of fire scorching down my throat before blooming into warmness beneath my ribs. My ears perked upright, fur standing on end along my spine. My vision sharpened until I could count the veins in a fallen leaf ten paces away. Even my claws seemed to tingle with newly gained awareness. It worked better than any energy drink or cup of espresso in my old life. The effects were more like what people describe after having Adderall, though I never tried it myself.

  Things looked less grim now, but I knew I was about to cross a bigger line than one with that goblin. We were choosing violence and planning it methodically. I thought of Ancair’s bloody side, then pictured my own claws covered in blood. The image didn’t tie a cold knot in my stomach like it usually would. I didn’t know if Ancair was a good or bad person. Maybe he had swindled dozens of families before, but that didn’t matter. I’d regret it later if I didn’t help him now. I was glad Uncle Flo felt the same way and that he raised me. As darkness spread across the Valley, I mentally prepared for my first real fight.

  1.1 - I finished a thorough line editing of this entire chapter. Yet again, I removed more unnecessary scene separators. That was a really bad habit of mine, good thing I noticed it early on.