He stalked towards the oak tree, the heavy iron chains he’d brought to secure the cub for transport clanking ominously in his calloused hand, each link a metallic curse against his misfortune. Blind, consuming rage took over. He swung the chains, a blur of motion, again and again against the thick, unyielding trunk. The metal bit into the bark with brutal force, sending splinters flying, each impact a physical manifestation of his seething frustration, the lost opportunity a bitter, coppery taste in his mouth.

Finally, his furious tantrum subsided, leaving him panting, sweat stinging his eyes, his knuckles white around the chain links. He lowered his arms, the chains dragging heavily on the ground. His gaze, still burning, fell on the tree where the cub had been. A flicker of confusion, then sharp, calculating thought, began to pierce the red haze of his anger. How had that scrawny, green-clad boy managed to restrain a creature that had given a seasoned hunter like himself, a specialist in rare and magical beasts, such a run for his money? He’d seen the primal fear in the cub’s eyes, yes, but also the raw, untamed strength thrumming in its small frame. Simple ropes, even his best, wouldn’t have held it for long once the initial shock wore off.

He moved closer, his hunter’s instincts, honed over decades of pursuit, overriding his lingering fury. His eyes, narrowed and sharp, scanned the base of the tree, the disturbed earth, the lower branches. It wasn't rope. He was sure of that. Tangled around the trunk, binding the lower branches with an unnatural tightness, were thick, gnarled roots, seemingly growing directly from the damp earth, their patterns too deliberate, too constricting to be natural. He knelt, ignoring the damp seeping into his worn leather breeches, his fingers tracing the rough, bark-like texture. A faint, almost imperceptible thrum of energy resonated beneath his touch, a subtle vibration that prickled his skin. Magic. Not the flashy, explosive kind some sorcerers wielded, nor the chilling aura of necromancy. This felt… older. Earthier.

His eyes, accustomed to tracking the faintest signs, widened. A slow, cold dawning of realization spread across his harsh features, chasing away the last vestiges of his frustrated rage. That boy… he hadn’t just found a convenient length of rope or even stumbled upon some pre-existing, magically-enhanced plant. He had *controlled* these roots. A green aseborn. Gregor’s breath hitched. The legends, the fireside tales his grandmother used to scare him with, flickered through his mind. Green aseborn were all thought to be extinct in this part of the world, driven out, hunted down during the Great Exodus generations ago when the Old Kings feared their power over the very land itself. A low, avaricious chuckle rumbled deep in his chest, a dry, rasping sound. Werebears fetched a decent price, certainly, a handful of gold for a rare, healthy specimen. Enough for a few good months. But a green aseborn… a living green aseborn, a child at that, pliable, perhaps easily controlled… they were worth more than a king’s ransom. A hundred times more, if the old tales held a shred of truth. His lips, thin and cruel, curled into a truly evil grin, revealing teeth stained yellow by cheap tobacco. His luck hadn’t run out after all. It had merely taken a more… verdant, and infinitely more profitable, turn.

Gregor scrambled back into the van, jamming it into gear with a violence that made the engine scream in protest. The tires spat gravel and tore at the earth as he wrenched the vehicle around, heading back towards Stylwater City. He drove with a reckless abandon now fueled by a different kind of fire – pure, unadulterated greed. He nearly clipped a wandering goat on the outskirts of a sleeping village, swerved to avoid a deep pothole that would have shattered his axle, the van groaning under the strain. The image of the green aseborn, the boy with the strange root-sword, and the unimaginable fortune he represented, burned in his mind, completely eclipsing the minor, almost laughable, loss of the werebear cub.

Hours later, as the bruised twilight sky bled into inky night, the dilapidated skyline of Stylwater loomed. He navigated the potholed, labyrinthine streets, the van rattling like a cage of angry spirits, until he reached the decaying, salt-scoured ruins of the abandoned fish market on the city’s derelict waterfront. A cluster of equally battered vehicles – carts with reinforced cages, wagons with suspicious, tarpaulin-covered loads, and a few more sputtering vans like his own, each bearing the scars of a hunter's brutal trade – surrounded the crumbling warehouse. This was where the city’s underbelly met the wild’s ruthlessness.

He cut the engine, the sudden silence amplifying the distant, mournful cries of gulls and the slap of oily water against rotting pylons. The air hung thick with the ghosts of brine, stale fish, and something else… a feral, unwashed scent that always clung to places like this. He slammed the van door shut, the sound echoing unnaturally, and strode towards the flickering lamplight spilling from the warehouse's open, gaping maw.

Inside, the cavernous space reeked of mildew, cheap ale, and desperation. A group of figures huddled around a makeshift table fashioned from old fish crates, the lamplight casting long, distorted shadows on the damp, sweating walls. They were a rough-looking bunch, their faces etched with the harsh calligraphy of their profession. Scars, old and new, crisscrossed their skin like tangled maps, and their eyes, when they lifted them, held the cold, calculating glint of predators sizing up new meat, or an unexpected opportunity. A game of knucklebones clattered to a halt on one end of the table; on the other, a man was meticulously sharpening a vicious-looking gutting knife.

"Well, look what the swamp dragged in," a burly man with a face like a scarred boulder chuckled, his voice a gravelly rasp. He spat a stream of brown liquid onto the floor. "Didn't think you'd be back so soon, Gregor. Lose your way chasing shadows again?"

Gregor ignored the jibe, his own eyes, cold and assessing, sweeping across the table. He knew these men. Borok, the burly one, all muscle and bluster. Kell, thin and wiry, with a hawk-like nose and eyes that missed nothing, their best tracker. And a few others, interchangeable in their desperation and brutality. "Anything new?" he bit out, his voice raw.

Kell, without looking up from braiding a snare wire, jerked his chin towards a stack of damp, curling parchment on the table. "Fresh off the presses, smuggled out this afternoon. Seems the Capital's got a new obsession. Or an old one, depending on how you look at it."

Gregor snatched the top poster, his eyes narrowing as he scanned it in the flickering light. A crude drawing, clearly done in haste by an untalented hand, depicted a small boy with an unruly mop of dark hair and a distinctive, gnarled root-sword strapped to his back. Below the clumsy sketch, stark black letters proclaimed: "WANTED: LEONOTIS - GREEN ASEBORN. SIGHTING OR CAPTURE. BY ORDER OF KING REGA IV. SUBSTANTIAL REWARD."

"That's him," Gregor breathed, a thrill, cold and sharp, coursing through him. He tapped the drawing with a dirt-encrusted finger. "That's the boy I saw. The one who controlled the roots."

"A green aseborn?" Borok whistled, leaning forward, his earlier mockery forgotten, his small eyes gleaming with sudden, intense interest. "Damn, Gregor, you didn't just stumble into a patch of mushrooms this time. You fell face-first into a goldmine."

"He's heading north," Gregor said, his voice tight with suppressed excitement, the image of overflowing coin-purses dancing in his vision. "I saw his tracks, with two others – girls, looked like. They're heading towards Water Mountain."

"Water Mountain?" Kell finally looked up, his brow furrowed, the snare wire forgotten in his hands. "That's deep into the wildlands. Uncharted. Worse than the Dark Forest, some say. Full of things best left undisturbed, not to mention the King's own patrols are thicker up there since the troubles started."

"The rewards will be worth any risk," Gregor countered, his eyes gleaming like a wolf’s in the dark. "The King's desperate, according to this poster. It doesn't state the amount, but it screams 'fortune' for a living green aseborn. A child, at that. Easier to handle."

A murmur of agreement, laced with avarice, rippled through the group. The thought of such wealth, a sum that could buy them all out of this life of grime and danger, was a powerful, almost irresistible lure. Even Kell’s caution seemed to waver.

"So, we split it evenly?" Borok asked, his voice low and rumbling, already counting his share. "No tricks, Gregor."

"Of course," Gregor said, a predatory grin spreading across his face, though it didn't quite reach his cold eyes. "We're all in this together. To the last coin."

A chorus of harsh, eager laughter erupted, echoing through the decaying warehouse. They raised their dented tankards of cheap, sour ale, the clinking of metal a rough toast to their impending fortune. They were hunters, united by greed, and they had just found their most valuable prey yet.