Derek stopped at the edge of the path where root and stone twisted together like a knotted spine.
Beyond it, the Rootwilds opened fully-lanterns hanging from living branches, voices carrying through layered walkways, the forest no longer silent but negotiating with the people inside it. Movement flowed in subtle currents: merchants, travellers, locals who walked as though the ground would move aside for them if asked politely enough.
Bruce leaned forward slightly, eyes bright. Vernon stood still, one hand resting against his abdomen, breath shallow as if the air itself felt unfamiliar.
"This," Derek said, "is where observation matters more than strength."
Neither of them spoke.
Derek turned to face them, posture relaxed but gaze sharp. He did not draw a line in the dirt. He did not lecture. He had learned long ago that words meant more when they were not forced to carry everything at once.
"You're not here to fight," he continued. "Not to prove anything. And certainly not to draw attention."
Bruce nodded immediately.
Vernon hesitated, then nodded as well.
"You're here to listen," Derek said. "To watch how people speak when they think no one important is nearby. To notice what names are said carefully-and which ones aren't said at all."
Bruce tilted his head. "And if we find something dangerous?"
"You don't engage," Derek replied without hesitation. "You leave. Information is only useful if you survive long enough to understand it."
That earned a faint smile from Vernon.
Derek's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary. "You especially."
Vernon straightened slightly. "I understand."
Derek reached into his coat and withdrew a small pouch. Inside, a few coins clinked softly-barely enough to matter, but not nothing.
"This isn't payment," Derek said, pressing it into Bruce's hand. "It's a test. Civilization assumes you already know how things work. It will not slow down for you."
Bruce weighed the pouch, grin tugging at his mouth. "So... learning opportunity?"
Derek snorted quietly. "If you want to call it that."
He stepped back, clearing the path.
"You have until dusk," he said. "Stay within the Rootwilds. No leaving the sub-city. No drawing steel. No using power unless absolutely necessary."
Bruce raised a hand. "Define 'absolutely.'"
Derek's stare flattened him instantly.
"...Right," Bruce said. "Very strict definition."
Vernon glanced once more at the Rootwilds, then back at Derek. "And if we succeed?"
Derek considered the question.
"You'll come back knowing more than you did this morning," he said. "That's enough."
He turned away before either of them could read anything further into his expression.
Bruce took a step forward, then paused. "Dad?"
Derek didn't look back.
Bruce's voice softened, excitement threading through it. "We'll be careful."
There was a beat.
"I know," Derek said quietly.
Then he was gone-melting into the trees as easily as if the forest itself had opened to take him back.
Bruce exhaled. "Okay. That felt... important."
Vernon adjusted his sleeves, eyes already tracking movement, sound, rhythm. "It was."
They exchanged a glance-one bright, one measured.
The first thing Vernon learned about civilization was that it smelled strange.
Not unpleasant-just layered.
Cooked food mingled with damp bark and old sap. Metal carried heat differently here, sharper and more insistent, while smoke clung to fabric instead of dissolving into leaves. There was something faintly sweet beneath it all, like overripe fruit or spiced wine, drifting from deeper within the sub-city.
The Rootwilds did not sit on the forest.
It existed with it.
Towering trees arched overhead, their exposed roots forming bridges, ramps, and natural overhangs. Buildings were grown rather than built-wood bent into shape, stone nestled where the ground allowed it, cloth stretched between living supports. Nothing here was symmetrical. Everything felt negotiated.
Bruce loved it immediately.
Vernon did not.
Bruce walked ahead, eyes wide, head turning constantly as if afraid the world might move when he wasn't looking. He laughed once-out loud-at nothing more than a merchant arguing with a stubborn cart wheel.
Vernon followed more slowly, hands clasped behind his back, posture composed. His attention wasn't on the stalls or people but on the space between them-how pathways subtly shifted, how foot traffic bent around unseen rules.
The forest still breathed here.
It just had more opinions.
The second thing Vernon learned was that everything cost money.
And the third was that no one warned you about that until it was already too late.
The mercenary guild occupied a massive hollow formed by a split root trunk, its interior reinforced with darkened beams and metal bracing. Notices were pinned everywhere-on boards, posts, even directly into the wood itself.
Vernon stepped inside with measured confidence.
The clerk behind the desk looked tired in the specific way of someone who had explained the same thing too many times to too many people who refused to listen.
"That'll be three silver for registration," the man said without looking up.
Vernon paused.
"...For what, precisely?"
The clerk finally glanced up, eyes flicking over Vernon's neat posture, young face, and calm expression. "Registry fee. Identification seal. Record entry."
Vernon processed this.
"And if one does not possess three silver?"
The clerk shrugged. "Then one does not register."
The answer was simple. Brutally so.
"I see," Vernon said politely. "Thank you for your clarification."
He stepped aside, allowing a grumbling pair of older men to pass, and exited the guild without further comment.
Only once he stood back outside did he stop moving.
The street was alive.
Not chaotic-alive. Conversations overlapped in fragments. Footsteps followed subtle rhythms. Somewhere metal rang against stone, not in alarm but routine. Somewhere else, steam hissed from a cookpot, accompanied by laughter.
Vernon exhaled slowly.
I misunderstood the process.
He did not feel embarrassment. Merely adjustment.
He turned toward the commission board.
The board sat beneath a massive arching root, notices layered unevenly atop one another. Some were fresh. Others had yellowed at the edges, forgotten rather than resolved.
Vernon read them all.
Escort requests.
Parcel deliveries.
Minor beast deterrence.
Lost items.
Then one caught his attention.
Missing: Grey-striped cat. Responds to "Ash."
Last seen near the southern root bridges.
Reward: Five silver.
Five silver exceeded the registration fee.
That made it optimal.
Vernon tore the notice free.
Civilization was loud-but not without structure. Beneath the chatter were patterns: repeated footsteps, familiar voices, animals slipping between spaces unseen.
He closed his eyes.
His enhanced sense of touch extended outward, not through contact but through awareness. Vibrations echoed faintly through wood and root. Paw-steps. A light scrape. A sharp, irritated yowl.
A hollow object tipping over.
Vernon opened his eyes and turned left.
Ash was wedged inside a basket of dried fish, fur bristling, tail flicking in irritation. The cat hissed the moment Vernon crouched nearby.
"You are stressed," Vernon observed calmly. "Not aggressive."
The cat paused.
Vernon reached out-not to grab, but to block escape paths. His movements were precise, minimal. Ash darted once, then twice, then found no opening.
Moments later, the cat was tucked firmly under Vernon's arm, glaring at him with betrayed intensity.
The owner cried with relief.
Five silver changed hands.
Vernon returned to the guild.
This time, the clerk looked surprised.
Bruce discovered his problem much faster.
Food.
Specifically, how unfairly good it was.
He stood inside a bustling restaurant grown into the side of a massive root cluster, staring at a plate of glazed meat and vegetables so fragrant it felt almost personal. Steam curled upward, rich and inviting.
"That'll be two copper," the woman behind the counter said.
Bruce smiled easily. "Perfect."
He reached into his pocket.
Paused.
Checked another pocket.
Then the small pouch Derek had handed him earlier.
Empty.
Bruce's smile didn't drop-though it did stretch slightly.
"...Hypothetically," he said, lowering his voice, "what if I did not possess two copper?"
The woman raised an eyebrow.
Bruce leaned in conspiratorially. "But I did possess enthusiasm, energy, and an alarming willingness to work."
She stared at him for a moment.
Then laughed.
"Dishes," she said, jerking her thumb toward the back. "Fast."
Bruce was gone before she finished speaking.
Dishwashing, Bruce discovered, was easy.
Too easy.
Plates slid into stacks without clatter. Bowls rotated into place with a subtle nudge of Qi. Water splashed and steamed as he moved, hands a blur without seeming rushed.
To anyone watching, he looked impossibly fast-but relaxed, like he was enjoying himself.
"You new here?" someone asked.
"Very," Bruce replied cheerfully.
"From where?"
"Forest."
That earned laughter.
Bruce laughed with them.
He didn't pry. Didn't interrogate. He asked questions that didn't feel like questions at all-about food, about routes, about why one stall closed earlier than the rest.
People filled the silence for him.
Names surfaced.
Trade families.
Old rivalries.
Quiet power.
"The Vire family," someone muttered while wiping a table. "They don't show themselves much anymore."
"Verdant too," another added. "Four branches. One core."
Bruce stored it all away.
He finished the dishes, accepted a full meal-and then another.
He was halfway through the second when Vernon walked in.
Vernon noticed Bruce immediately.
Not because of speed-but because Bruce was everywhere. Laughing at one table, nodding at another, plates moving constantly.
Vernon slid into the seat opposite him.
"You are very visible," Vernon said.
Bruce grinned. "You're very quiet."
"I registered," Vernon said calmly.
Bruce froze mid-bite. "Without money?"
"I located a missing cat."
Bruce stared. "...I don't like that this keeps happening."
Vernon glanced around. "You are gathering information."
"Accidentally," Bruce admitted. "It's kind of amazing."
"I will listen from the back," Vernon said.
Bruce blinked. "You're not eating?"
"I already did."
Vernon stood and drifted away, presence folding inward until he became part of the background. His hearing expanded gently, voices layering into patterns.
Bruce watched him go, then turned back to the table, smiling as someone sat down across from him.
They didn't look dangerous.
They didn't feel important.
And for now, that was perfect.
They regrouped at dusk near the edge of the sub-city, trading observations in low voices.
Nothing urgent.
Nothing threatening.
But names lingered.
Vire.
Verdant.
Four branch families.
One central authority.
A man named Turpin Verdant, spoken of distantly, as if from behind glass.
Bruce stretched. "Feels like we walked into the shallow end of something very deep."
Vernon nodded. "And we're not noticed."
They returned to Derek full, calm, and quietly informed.
Vernon suspected that was exactly what made it dangerous.