The Cursed Extra-Chapter 85: [2.33] Hope Is a Dangerous Thing
"When you’re drowning, you’ll grab anything that floats. Even if it might be a trap."
***
The torn page fluttered against the stone like a wounded bird trying to escape.
Rhys almost walked past it. Another piece of academy refuse blown free from some careless scholar’s research. But something about the careful script caught his eye.
He found himself kneeling beside the weathered parchment.
Iron-Root (Ferrum Radix): A rare herb found in temperate woodlands, recognizable by its distinctive rust-colored stems and metallic sheen on the underside of leaves. Primary alchemical component in strengthening tonics and mana-enhancement potions. Market value: 15-20 silver per ounce in major cities, significantly higher in remote regions.
His calloused fingers traced the words as if they might vanish at his touch.
Twenty silver.
An ounce of this herb could buy Elara’s medicine for an entire month. Longer, if he rationed it carefully. If he convinced the apothecary to mix it with cheaper fillers that wouldn’t compromise the treatment’s effectiveness.
The weight of possibility settled in his gut. Heavy. Uncomfortable. Like swallowing a stone that refused to go down.
He read the botanical description again. Committed every detail to memory with the same focus he’d once applied to tracking goblin raiding parties through Whisperwood’s undergrowth.
Found in clusters near oak groves, particularly in areas with iron-rich soil. Harvest during late afternoon when mana concentration peaks.
The page included a detailed sketch of the plant and a notation about the western woods beyond the academy grounds. Someone had meticulously recorded additional observations in the margins. Notes about soil composition and growing conditions that suggested extensive fieldwork.
The handwriting was the work of someone who understood the value of what they’d documented. A scholar, maybe. Or an alchemist’s apprentice who’d stumbled onto something profitable and been careless enough to lose their findings.
Rhys surveyed the empty grove. His sharp green eyes scanned for witnesses.
Nothing moved except a few late-season leaves drifting from the branches overhead. Somewhere distant, a crow called out in a rough, broken voice.
The hardened part of his mind raised immediate objections. Venturing beyond academy grounds without authorization was strictly forbidden. A violation that carried automatic point deductions at minimum. At worst, the kind of disciplinary hearing that ended with scholarship students being escorted to the gates.
Discovery meant potential expulsion. His scholarship revoked.
And with it, any chance of saving Elara.
His sister’s face swam before his eyes. Hollow cheeks. Skin stretched too tight over fragile bones. The way she’d stopped laughing sometime during last winter when the coughing fits became too painful.
But twenty silver per ounce...
He folded the page with deliberate care and tucked it inside his worn leather vest. Next to Elara’s locket where the bronze pressed cool against his chest.
The parchment crinkled softly as he retrieved his spear and set off toward the shadowed edge of the forest. Each step felt like a decision he couldn’t take back. Like crossing one of those rope bridges over the gorges near his village.
Once you committed, there was no turning around without falling.
The western woods extended past the academy’s cultivated boundaries into untamed wilderness. Towering oaks stood like ancient sentinels. Their interlocking branches created a ceiling so dense that sunlight penetrated only in scattered golden droplets.
The rich scent of loam filled his nostrils. It stirred memories of his distant home. Autumn hunts with his father when the man was still strong enough to hold a bow. Gathering mushrooms with Elara before the sickness took root in her lungs.
After twenty minutes of fruitless searching, doubt began to creep in.
Rhys consulted the torn page once more. Compared its descriptions with his surroundings while keeping one ear trained for the sound of approaching footsteps.
Iron-rich soil. Oak groves. The afternoon sun filtering through at specific angles.
He knelt and gathered a handful of earth. Noted the reddish tinge that indicated high mineral content. The same color that stained the streams near the old iron mines back home. The dirt crumbled between his fingers, leaving rust-colored stains on his skin.
Then he spotted it.
Rust-colored stems partially hidden among a massive oak’s exposed roots. Nestled in the hollow where centuries of growth had pushed the tree’s base into a twisted mass of wood and earth.
His heart jumped as he approached. Moving with the caution of a hunter who’d learned that valuable prizes were often the most dangerous to claim.
The plants matched the illustration perfectly. Down to the metallic sheen on the underside of each leaf that caught what little light reached the forest floor.
A small cluster of perhaps twelve stems. Each as thick as his thumb. Heavy with distinctive coloration that seemed to pulse with an inner vitality.
His hands trembled slightly as he harvested them. Using his belt knife to cut each stem cleanly at the base the way his mother had taught him to harvest winter vegetables without damaging the root system.
The plants had unexpected weight. As if laden with concentrated mana that added physical mass to their slender forms.
Even with his limited knowledge of alchemy, he recognized their exceptional quality. Premium Iron-Root that would command top prices in any market.
Hope.
The feeling was almost foreign after months of grim acceptance. After so many letters from home describing Elara’s declining condition in his mother’s careful language that tried to spare him the worst details.
Yet here it was. Warming his chest with dangerous possibility.
Enough herb to purchase Elara’s medicine for months. Perhaps even fund specialized treatments from southern healers who’d developed new techniques for mana-degenerative conditions.
Rhys wrapped the stems in a spare cloth. His mind raced with calculations.
Each stem would fetch at least five silver pieces from an honest merchant. Double that from an alchemist who recognized their true worth. If he could find a trader in the nearby town who wouldn’t ask questions about academy students selling herbs...
Voices cut through the forest stillness.
Several people approaching from the academy grounds. Their footsteps careless and loud in the way of those who’d never needed to move quietly.
Rhys froze. Pressed the precious bundle against his chest. Controlled his breathing. Forced his heart to slow through the same techniques he’d used when crouched behind the village palisade waiting for goblin raiders to pass.
"Most embarrassing thing I’ve seen in years. His swordwork? Like watching a three-legged dog try to climb stairs."
