Several days passed before the trap finally caught something worth keeping. Grub had fallen into a quiet rhythm during that time, a pattern that slowly replaced the chaos of the ridge. He woke before the forest shifted fully into morning. He went down and checked the stream. Then he checked the tracks for any changes. Finally he checked the trap. He wrote down what he saw and what had changed. Then he rested. Then he repeated it again the next day.

  The routine was simple, but Grub didn’t mind. It felt controlled and planned. He liked the control over his life that he hadn’t had since he fell.

  Each morning the same dull pain greeted him first. His ribs ached before he even moved, a deep soreness that had settled into permanence. The sharp agony from The Leviathan had faded into something steadier, something that felt less like an injury and more like a part of his body now. His leg improved slower. The burn along his calf still pulsed when he put too much weight on it, and sometimes the stiffness forced him to stand still for long moments before he trusted it enough to walk. Still, he was healing. Even though it was slow. On the fourth morning, the trap branch stood bent at a strange angle. Grub noticed it from several paces away and immediately slowed his approach.

  The forest looked ordinary. Creatures that Grub had conceded into calling insects, droned lazily through the warm air. Leaves shifted in the faint breeze. Somewhere above him, something small hopped between branches. Nothing sounded alarmed. Nothing seemed to be too close. Even so, he paused and scanned carefully before stepping forward.

  Only then did he crouch beside the animal run. Something hung from the cloth loop. It wasn’t one of the small rodents he had expected.

  The creature was longer than his forearm and narrow through the body, covered in short bristled fur that shifted from dull brown to a faint green tint along its spine. Its limbs were thin but jointed strangely, the rear legs bending at angles that didn’t look natural for any animal he remembered. The tail ended in a stiff hardened point like a splintered stick.

  Its narrow head hung limp in the snare. Small blunt teeth showed between parted lips, worn and flat like they were meant for grinding roots or bark instead of tearing flesh. He didn’t recognize it. But that didn’t matter. It was food.

  The creature twitched weakly as he approached, its body trembling with shallow breaths. The cloth loop had dug deep into the fur along its neck. Grub ended it quickly. He tightened the loop and twisted once until the movement stopped completely. The body went slack almost instantly. As it did, the dark smoke rose out of its body, which Grub absorbed without hesitation. Absorbing it made the weight in his chest surge. As the smoke disappeared into his hands he heard a brief squeaking voice in his head. He brushed it off and moved on.

  He turned and examined the animal afterward, turning it slowly in his hands.It was an unknown species.

  Approximately two kilograms. It was a herbivore, likely. No obvious venom structures. No scent glands detected.

  He wrote the notes quickly before resetting the trap out of habit. Even if he never returned, the process mattered to him. Leaving a trap unset felt wrong. Like leaving work unfinished.

  He carried the carcass back toward the hollow and set to work with his sharp stone. The hide peeled away in uneven strips as he worked carefully along the muscle lines. The smell was faintly sour but not rotten. Blood darkened the soil beneath his hands as he separated the meat into usable portions. His fingers worked slowly but precisely. Each movement was measured. Each cut was deliberate. He made sure he wasted nothing. That rule mattered now more than ever.

  When the meat was ready, he gathered dry bark and dead twigs from the immediate area. He rubbed them together and used the friction to start a small fire. Grub made sure not to make it large enough to be seen from a distance. He was cautious to avoid advertising his location. He made sure it was just enough heat to cook.

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  The flame started slowly, coaxed from careful sparks and patient breath. Thin smoke curled upward in narrow threads that disappeared into the canopy overhead. He watched it constantly while the meat cooked. He kept a close eye on the forest. Observing for possible threats or surprises. He was cooking meat, so the threat of a carnivore getting a whiff was high. If that happened that would spell a lot of trouble for him.

  As it cooked, fat dripped into the fire with quiet hisses while the surface of the meat darkened and tightened. The smell was unfamiliar but not unpleasant. Still, he didn’t eat. Not yet. The dried scraps from the ridge still remained in his pack, and they needed to be used first before they spoiled further. Fresh meat could wait. Preserved meat lasted longer if left untouched.

  Efficiency over comfort. Always.

  When the strips cooled, he wrapped them carefully in cloth and packed them into his bundle. He rearranged the contents slowly until the weight sat evenly across his shoulder. He winced as he handled the bundle and wobbled a bit. His leg was getting better, but far from healed. The stomach acid of the grub was a potent concoction it seemed. He wasn’t sure how long until he was healed.

  When he finished packing the meat, he sat still for a moment and listened. The forest continued without interruption. Nothing had noticed him—Good. Still, staying here any longer would be a mistake.

  The hollow had served its purpose. It had given him shelter, water, and food. But staying in one place too long meant becoming predictable and content. He had things to do and something to find. He couldn’t stay still.

  Grub stamped out the last embers of the fire and scattered the ash with the side of his boot. He brushed disturbed soil flat and replaced loose leaves over the darker patches. He wiped the stone he had used and returned it to his pack. He left behind no signs of his presence.

  Then he stood and looked around the small rise one last time.

  The split tree. The hook-shaped vine. The shallow hollow between roots.

  His first safe place since going out on his own. It was just temporary safety.

  Nothing more.

  He adjusted the bundle on his shoulder and began moving. He headed Northwest. Toward the boot tracks.

  He didn’t rush. His injuries wouldn’t allow that even if he wanted to. Instead, he moved at a steady pace that he could maintain without exhausting himself. Every stretch of ground became a reference point.

  A fallen trunk shaped like a crooked bridge. Three pale-barked trees growing close together. A shallow dip where the soil turned darker and softer.

  He stopped occasionally to make subtle markers — a shallow scratch in bark, a twig angled deliberately, a small stone turned onto its flat side. Nothing another traveler would notice. Just enough for him to find his way back if he needed to. Mapping the area mattered as much as moving through it.

  Every path needed a return. Even if he never used it. After a while he reached into his bundle and pulled out a strip of dried ridge meat. He chewed as he walked. It tasted tough and stale, but familiar. Better to finish it first.

  The taste reminded him of community and noise and people — things already fading into memory. Between bites he stopped occasionally to write notes in his journal.

  Any unusual plants. Subtle changes in soil. Animal runs. Interesting tree formations. Anything different from before. Anything that might matter later. Somewhere ahead, someone else had passed through this forest.

  So he followed the only proof he had of intelligent life It might lead nowhere. It might lead to danger. It might lead to answers. He didn’t know. But it was better than staying still. Better than waiting for something to find him first.

  He paused briefly at the edge of a small rise and looked back. The trees hid everything now. The hollow he had slept in The stream with delicious drinkable water which he had filled his flask with. The trap he made for food.

  All swallowed by layers of green and shadow. His temporary safe place had already vanished. Grub adjusted the bundle on his shoulder and turned forward again. He stepped deeper into the forest, following the direction of the unknown tracks, writing down what he saw as he moved.

  It wasn’t certainty that drove him. Only possibility.

  A long journey stretched ahead — through a world he didn’t understand, toward people he didn’t know, chasing answers he couldn’t yet define. Still, he kept moving.

  “Better than staying,” he muttered quietly.

  Then he walked on, leaving the last traces of his first refuge behind.