The late afternoon sun cast long shadows as Del and Misty stepped beyond the threshold of the building, their hunting trip finally underway. The air carried the scent of damp earth and crushed foliage, mingling with the distant murmur of running water somewhere down in the valley. A light breeze stirred the undergrowth, rustling through leaves and carrying the occasional burst of birdsong.

  A small, dark-feathered bird flitted between the branches of a nearby tree, its rapid, chittering call sharp against the more distant warbles of others deeper in the valley. It looked similar to a blackbird, though its tail was a little longer and its head slightly more angular. Del wasn’t much of a bird expert, but he could at least tell it wasn’t quite the same as those who used to come to his feeder. Another darted from the undergrowth, startling a scattering of tiny winged insects into the air. They caught the sunlight as they spiralled upward, their delicate bodies glinting like copper. Something that looked very much like a dragonfly hovered briefly before flicking away, its wings shimmering in iridescent greens and blues.

  Del was enjoying just being. A part of the natural environment around and about him. It was refreshing and a salve after the past couple of weeks since he arrived in this strange land.

  “So, a nice bit of fresh venison tonight sound good to you?” Del asked, keeping his voice light.

  ‘I get the liver,’ Misty informed him with an air of absolute certainty.

  Stepping carefully over a fallen branch, Del gave a knowing nod.

  “I find deer liver too rich for me. I prefer lamb.”

  The memory of a steaming homemade hotpot surfaced unbidden—mutton slow-cooked with onions and root vegetables; its deep flavour enhanced by the iron tang of lamb’s liver. His stomach tightened with longing, but the nostalgic indulgence was abruptly cut short by Misty’s unimpressed snort.

  ‘It’s a dinkus,’ she corrected with a flick of her tail, ‘or did you not pay attention to the kitten?’

  Del huffed a small laugh. “Forgive me, oh wise and powerful teacher.”

  Misty stopped dead in her tracks, plonked herself down in the grass, and fixed him with the kind of look only a cat could manage—one that conveyed exasperation, amusement, and judgment all at once. Then, as if making a point, she began washing her paw with slow deliberation.

  Smirking, Del held up both hands in surrender. “Alright, I’m sorry, lass.” He crouched and ran a hand over the top of her head, scratching just the way she liked best. “Am I forgiven?”

  Another long stare. Then, with a flick of her tail, she stood, sauntering off towards the next cluster of trees.

  ‘Come,’ was her only response.

  The landscape here felt oddly familiar, reminding Del of the English countryside. The rougher terrain of the upper valley had given way to rolling hills, the land stretched out before them in undulating waves of green. Broad meadows sprawled between thickly clustered copses of trees, their branches casting dappled light across the soft grass below.

  Wildflowers dotted the fields in splashes of delicate colour, their petals swaying gently with each shift of the wind. Del recognised a few of them—blue, bell-shaped blooms that looked similar to harebells, tiny yellow ones clustered low to the ground. Others were entirely unfamiliar, their colours more vivid than seemed natural, some appearing almost luminescent in the shade of the trees.

  A few paces ahead, a small brown bird with a long tail pecked at the ground, its head tilting side to side as if assessing whether Del and Misty were a threat. The moment he stepped closer, it let out a sharp, rattling chirp and shot into the underbrush.

  Feldspar was still the most common plant he spotted, but as they moved further down the valley, other useful flora revealed themselves. Near a narrow tributary stream, his gaze landed on a thick patch of velvety green moss clinging to the damp rocks. Not recognising it he decided it was worth investigating.

  ‘Identify’

  Dewberry Moss: Medicinal Plant. Grows in damp caves and near running water and waterfalls. Apply to burns and stings for near-instant relief and rapid skin regeneration.

  Satisfied, he carefully harvested a few handfuls, tucking them into his pouch alongside a fresh bundle of silverbloom.

  A movement to his right caught his eye—something fluttering low over the grass. He turned just in time to see a large butterfly settle onto a broad green leaf. It was roughly the size of his palm, its wings a deep russet red, speckled with a pattern of inky black dots. It reminded him of something he had once seen in a humid butterfly house years before.

  Misty followed his gaze. ‘Hunting butterflies now?’

  “I’m just looking,” he muttered. “That one looks almost like something back home.”

  She twitched her tail dismissively. ‘Useless. Pretty, but useless.’

  Del huffed a small laugh. He patted his pouch. “They may be but I’m becoming quite the plant collector, those are useful,” he remarked.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  ‘They can’t run away when you hunt them,’ Misty mused, the flick of her whiskers betraying her amusement.

  Del sighed, shaking his head. ‘Bloody cat really doesn’t think much of me as a hunter.’

  Their progress through the valley was slow but steady, meandering in the direction Naomi had described. The wind carried the rustling of leaves and the occasional distant trill of a bird. It was peaceful, almost lulling—until Misty came to an abrupt halt.

  She stood beside a thick tussock of grass, her ears pricked forward, waiting.

  Del eyed her warily. “What?”

  Misty said nothing. Instead, she flicked her gaze from him to the ground near her feet, then back again.

  ‘Why does this remind me of my damn driving test?’ He frowned, crouching down for a closer look.

  ‘No, mate, it’s worse. In a driving test, they at least tell you what to do next.’

  Misty remained perfectly still; her golden eyes trained on him with patient expectancy. No clues. No hints. Just quiet, unwavering judgement.

  Suppressing a sigh, Del examined the area near her paws, brushing his fingers lightly over the grass. Nothing seemed particularly unusual. Just ordinary blades of—

  He paused.

  The stems were bent, snapped at uneven angles. The damage wasn’t natural. And there, clinging faintly to the air was something… off. A scent he couldn’t quite place.

  He straightened slightly, looking at her. “I can see the broken stems, but I don’t—”

  ‘Smell them,’ Misty instructed, her tail flicking.

  Del frowned. “Hey, not fair! My nose isn’t like yours.”

  ‘Then train it better. Or get better at looking.’

  Grinding his teeth, he crouched again and focused harder. To him, it just smelled like grass, damp earth, and—wait. There it was. A faint, musky scent lingering around the broken stems. It wasn’t strong, but now that he’d caught it, he recognised it as something animal.

  “You has a big advantage being down low all the time,” he muttered under his breath.

  Misty’s ears twitched.

  ‘Talk like me. Prey is close.’

  His fingers curled around the strap of his bow, carefully unslinging it. He exhaled slowly. ‘Alright, Misty, which way?’

  ‘Follow. Stay quiet.’

  Del had noticed it before—when Misty entered hunting mode, her words became fewer, clipped and efficient. She was shifting gears now. The hunt had begun.

  He fell in step behind her, keeping low. Ahead, a small stand of scraggly trees waited, their sparse canopy offering only meagre cover. Misty flowed forward with effortless grace, her paws making no sound on the soft earth.

  Del did his best to emulate her silence. He was getting better at it. But he still wasn’t a cat.

  He wasn’t nearly as silent as Misty, and she made sure he knew it. Every few paces, she cast a glance back—each one a wordless rebuke that needed no translation. He grimaced but pressed on, keeping his footfalls as light as possible.

  The undergrowth thinned as they approached the edge of the tree line, the dense cover giving way to a more open expanse. Beyond a sparse row of shrubs, an open field stretched out before them, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. The sky had begun its slow shift towards twilight, a deeper blue creeping in at the horizon, streaked with wisps of dusky cloud.

  A small group of dinkus grazed in the long grass, their sturdy, deer-like bodies half-hidden by the swaying blades. They moved with slow, unhurried motions, tails flicking idly, ears twitching at the faintest disturbances. Their short, curved horns caught the amber glow of the fading sunlight, giving them an almost gilded appearance. Del instinctively slowed his breathing, watching them.

  Misty halted beside him, her body low, tail held perfectly still.

  ‘Watch them,’ she instructed in a hushed tone. ‘See—the one with its head up, sniffing the air?’

  Del narrowed his eyes, scanning the herd. Most of them were focused on feeding, but one stood apart, head lifted, its nostrils flaring as it tasted the wind. Even from here, he could see the tension in its posture, the way its muscles remained coiled beneath its dappled hide, ready to spring into motion at the first sign of danger. A sentry—keeping guard.

  He gave a small nod, unwilling to make a sound, even in his thoughts, lest it somehow disturb the delicate balance of the moment.

  A soft chirring noise drifted from somewhere nearby, a late-foraging insect hidden in the brush. Another joined it in an uneven rhythm, their calls blending with the rustling of grass in the wind. The landscape was alive, but the dinkus herd remained oblivious to it, their attention tuned instead to far greater threats.

  Misty’s ear twitched, but she remained perfectly still.

  ‘Remain here. I go. If they flee, I pounce.’

  Del barely turned his head, just enough to acknowledge her.

  ‘Gotcha,’ he whispered in his mind.

  There was a moment’s pause. Then her tail flicked once.

  ‘When I signal, you shoot. Let us hunt.’

  He exhaled slowly, withdrawing an arrow from his quiver. Even as Misty was about to melt into the underbrush, he ran the feathered end across his lips, dampening it slightly before nocking it against the bowstring.

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  He hesitated. ‘I think I saw Robin Hood doing it in some movie or other.’

  There was a long, unimpressed silence. Then she vanished.

  ‘Great job, Del. You suck a fucking feather ‘cos some bloody Hollywood goon thought it looked cool.’

  Del rolled his eyes but said nothing, keeping his focus on the field ahead.

  ‘Pay attention!’ Misty’s voice snapped, sharp as a whip. ‘Be ready.’

  He pushed the dampened arrow into the dirt beside him and drew a fresh one, nocking it carefully. His grip steadied as he lifted the bow, sighting down the shaft, muscles tensed in readiness.

  Even without seeing her, he could feel Misty preparing for the strike. The energy coiled inside her like a drawn bowstring, waiting for release.

  ‘I just know her butt is twitching right now,’ he thought, biting back a quiet laugh.

  Then—

  ‘Now.’

  He loosed the arrow.

  The dinkus on watch turned sharply, its ears flicking back in alarm. A warning snort burst from its throat. As if connected by an unseen thread, the entire group exploded into motion, surging in a dozen different directions before wheeling as one and sprinting away.

  His arrow struck—low, too far back. A flank hit.

  Not a kill shot.

  For a breath, he thought the creature would escape.

  Then Misty struck.

  She was a blur of motion, a streak of burning amber against the green.

  She landed square on the dinkus’s back, the impact sending up a cloud of dust and torn grass. Before the animal could react, she sank her teeth into its neck, ripping out a large vital chunk before leaping away, neatly avoiding a violent spray of gore and blood.

  The creature lurched a step once—twice—then crumpled.

  Del barely had time to process the clean efficiency of the kill before the rest of the herd vanished over the rise, hooves thundering against the earth.

  Silence returned, thick and heavy.

  Misty lifted her head from the fallen dinkus, licking a trace of blood from her whiskers. Her eyes met his.

  ‘Next time, aim better.’