“First things first”, Riven said, still rubbing his ear where he had felt the pine needle’s sting. “It deserves a name. Something epic like Green Death, or The Menacing Night, or…”

  Joseph lifted a hand sharply. “Hold it right there lad. Those names are fine if you want to scare livestock, but think on something lighter, something that shapes its nature instead of its shadow. Look at him. Those red claws are a trait no one will miss. So perhaps…”

  Riven snapped his fingers. “Redpaw. Yes. That is it. That is what I will name him.”

  Joseph chuckled. “That is a surprisingly good name, considering your first ideas.”

  Riven squinted at him. “Are you saying I am not good at naming things.”

  Joseph gave a shrug and a smile.” I like Redpaw. Let us leave it at that.”

  As if understanding, the little creature hopped forward, landing neatly at Riven’s feet. It looked up at him with those black void eyes and tilted its head in a way almost playful.

  Joseph laughed softly. “I suppose he likes it too.”

  The next days passed in a strange rhythm as Riven adjusted to the new bond woven into his life. He learned quickly that the world felt less fractured when Redpaw perched on his shoulder. Sharing the same field of vision steadied the dizziness. The doubled smell and the doubled hearing were still a torment at times, but at least he walked without stumbling now. It was not the most efficient way to use a scout, but he decided to master the creature’s senses first. The split eyesight, the widened field from above, he would train a lot.

  Joseph found nothing in Torvil’s books that could toggle the senses on and off so Riven would have to endure. In time he made peace with that truth. One day, if he learned to fight with Redpaw’s senses as well as his own, he would have an advantage no soldier alive could match. He pushed through the waves of dizziness, through the sharp jolts of pain when Redpaw scraped a claw or struck a branch. He endured and pushed forward.

  They hunted together, trained together, walked together. Redpaw learned with unsettling speed, reacting almost before Riven gave the command. That alone helped ease the disorientation. But the creature held other gifts too. Gifts neither of them had expected.

  One afternoon they stalked a stag near the grove. Redpaw froze, its void black eyes fixed on the animal. Through those eyes Riven saw something impossible. The stag’s outline faded. Its hide thinned to a ghostly shimmer, and bones showed faintly beneath the skin. Redpaw saw straight through it. Deeper still he noticed a clot in the back leg, an old wound that had never healed right. The stag favored the other leg. Its gait faltered in subtle ways Riven would never have caught alone.

  Because of that single insight they brought it down within minutes.

  And there was something else…something more sinister.

  When Redpaw’s red claws or fangs touched blood, the creature absorbed part of it. Riven felt the rush immediately. Redpaw’s speed doubled. Its wounds knitted faster. Yet there was more than strength in the taking. With the blood came echoes. Flashes of memory spilled into Redpaw, half-formed and jagged. The copper tang of fear. The sharp musk of wet stone and old leaves. Sounds that were not its own, a dying snarl, a distant call, the thud of a heart that no longer beat.

  Those fragments did not stop with Redpaw. They bled onward, slipping across the bond and into Riven’s mind like smoke through cracks in a door. For a breath he was not wholly himself. He tasted foreign dread, heard unfamiliar forests whisper, felt instincts that were never meant for him.

  It was as if Redpaw was not merely absorbing blood, but drawing in splinters of the creature’s soul, and with each such taking it became more. Stronger, swifter, and yet unsteady. Confusion rippled through the small beast, its thoughts briefly tangled with foreign hungers and dying wills, until it shook itself and pressed on, unaware of how close such power brushed the edge of losing itself. Part of that was because of their bond, because of Riven and the fact that the he understood what was happening, and somehow that went back into Redpaw.

  Sometimes Redpaw slipped into a savage haze, a near berserk state where his obedience wavered. Riven’s voice barely reached him when that frenzy took hold. It was not the result of the components he used. None of the chosen ingredients carried that trait. So it could only come from one thing.

  The dark liquid. The moss from the creature that killed his father.

  Riven felt unease coil around his spine at that thought. Yet even with that shadowed influence, Redpaw proved dependable, their bond proving to be stronger every time.

  A strange companion, woven from careful craft and one dark thread Riven did not fully understand, but a companion all the same and perhaps a friend.

  As the weeks slipped by, the communion between boy and creature grew smoother, steadier, almost natural. It no longer felt like two beings straining to understand one another. Riven sensed that something in his body had shifted. His mind no longer reeled when Redpaw flew high above the grove. His thoughts no longer tangled when two scents mingled or two sets of footsteps echoed from different directions. His very blood must have changed, his nerves rewoven, his mind shaped into something that could carry two worlds at once.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Strength followed that change, quiet at first, then undeniable. With every beast they hunted, with every struggle in which blood was spilled, Redpaw altered, its muscles hardening, its movements sharpening, new instincts surfacing like half-remembered dreams. Some changes were subtle, a longer leap, a quicker turn in the air. Others lingered in the way its eyes lingered on prey, colder, more knowing.

  And through the bond, those changes did not stop with the creature. Riven felt them settle into himself, sinew tightening, breath deepening, reactions honed beyond what a boy already possess. Together they learned efficiency. The wasteful chase fell away. Traps were set with patient hands. Hunts ended swiftly. Boy and beast moved as a single will, shaped by shared blood and shared survival, each victory drawing them further from what they had been, and closer to something new.

  When Redpaw soared above the treetops Riven felt the brush of wind beneath wings he did not possess. When the creature pierced the canopy with those void black eyes Riven saw each animal beneath the leaves, each shift of terrain, each burrow or creek bed hidden under brush. He sensed how the wind would twist before it did, as if the forest whispered its changes to him, and he learned how a shift in breeze carried scent from one hollow to another.

  These things he could never do alone. Now they were as simple as breathing.

  With such a gift he realized he needed a weapon worthy of it. A bow would be perfect, it could strike from a place the enemy could not even see. Joseph agreed and set to work carving one from the heartwood of a sturdy tree. The curve of it held strength without stiffness and took to runes better than most wood. He engraved sigils meant to reinforce the frame, to keep it from warping under power.

  Riven added the final touch.

  He remembered his father’s earliest lessons, when he had taught them to heighten their senses. Back then they required runes that dampened sight or hearing until control came naturally. That memory sparked an idea. If a rune could dampen the senses, then a modified version could disrupt them. He spent long hours adjusting the pattern until the symbol no longer dampened the ear but instead confused it. Once carved onto the bow it created a faint pulse that unbalanced the target, leaving it dizzy in the moment before the arrow struck.

  Joseph tested it by aiming near a tree, and even the leaves trembled with the effect.

  Riven smiled at the result. It was a fine weapon for one who could see from above while standing on the ground.

  He dreamed of adding more to his kit. A quiver that replenished its arrows. A charm that steadied his aim at impossible angles. But he had nothing on that yet. Until he further learned the craft there would be no endless quiver. So for now he shaped arrows the old way, sharpening each one by hand, straightening the shafts by candlelight while Redpaw slept curled at his feet like a small guardian of roots and shadow.

  Step by step he grew stronger.

  Step by step he grew closer to the day he would face the truth behind his father’s death.

  One day Riven returned from Torvil’s grave with a quiet resolve in his step, snow clinging to his boots and a cold brightness in his eyes. Joseph looked up from the fire, waiting for the boy to speak.

  “I have decided”, Riven said. “I am going north.”

  Joseph tilted his head, not surprised but thoughtful. “What pulls you there lad.”

  Riven touched Redpaw’s back. “I feel it through him, a pull that has been growing for weeks, almost like a whisper. My plan worked, a part of him yearns to travel north and whatever calls him must be the same presence behind everything. That is where I will find the truth.”

  Joseph said nothing at first. His hands rested on his knees, his old eyes studying the boy, weighing the danger against the path. At last he nodded slowly.

  “I am old now lad. My heart still whispers for adventure, but this body of mine would only slow you down. I will stay here and keep the cabin standing. But there is something I will tell you before you go. Go find your sister first and let her know you are alive. Only then will your resolve be strong enough to carry you through whatever waits in the north.”

  Riven hesitated. He had expected Joseph to argue with him, try to join him, perhaps even forbid him. Instead the old man gave him a truth he had been avoiding. He had abandoned them without a word. Lysa must have searched for him with a broken heart. Brann must have feared the worst. Even Dorian, old stubborn Dorian, might have wasted nights wondering.

  He had been cruel without meaning it. Cruel in his silence.

  “You are right”, Riven said quietly. “I should see them. I should let them know I still stand.”

  Joseph clapped him gently on the shoulder. “Good lad. That is all a man needs, clear resolve, and the strength of those who care for him. And boy please remember, that there are always more ways to look at a certain situation, you know that better than anyone now.”

  Indeed Riven had learned that thru Redpaw, a power that sliced the world.

  They said their farewells while the sun climbed above the trees, a thin pale light on the cabin roof. Riven strapped the bow across his back, tightened his cloak, and placed Redpaw on his shoulder. The creature’s wings rustled softly, a familiar sound that steadied Riven’s breath.

  When he reached the edge of the grove he paused. The moment he stepped past the boundary the forest’s protective charms faded behind him. The winter wind struck his face like a cold palm, sharp and biting. He had grown used to it during his visits to Torvil’s grave, but he still disliked its raw edge. Ahead lay the long road, bitter and lonely.

  He pressed forward anyway.

  His right foot sank into the snow, then his left. Each step crunched beneath him, steady and sure. Redpaw’s claws gripped his shoulder as the creature leaned into the wind. Together they moved north, one step after another, leaving the grove and Joseph’s quiet strength behind them.

  The journey would be long and harsh, but Riven no longer wavered.

  He had a path. He had purpose.

  And he walked toward it without looking back.