“That is not helpful,” I murmured under my breath, my eyes never leaving the bear.

  “I’m not sure it’s a threat,” Rabbit said, his tone calm and detached. “The way it’s moving on all fours, and it doesn’t seem aggressive.”

  He might have been right. The bear’s attention was fixed more on the fire than on me, its nose twitching as it sniffed the air. Still, the sheer size of it and the way it moved sent a shiver down my spine.

  Figuring it was better to leave than risk finding out how wrong Rabbit could be, I carefully reached for my clothes. The moment I moved, the bear’s head snapped up, its dark eyes locking onto me.

  It let out a low huff, its massive shoulders rolling as it shifted its weight. My hand froze mid-reach, my breath caught in my throat. For a few tense moments, we just stared at each other, the crackle of the fire the only sound between us.

  “I think it just noticed you. It probably couldn’t catch the scent of your failure through the smoke,” Rabbit quipped, unhelpful as ever.

  “Thanks for the observation,” I muttered under my breath.

  The bear took a step forward, its head lowering slightly as if trying to decide whether I was friend, foe, or food. I didn’t want to provoke it, but also didn’t want to signal I was easy prey. Grabbing a stick from the edge of the fire, I held it out, the flames dancing near the bear’s face.

  The bear stared at me for a moment longer before retreating a few steps. It gave one last sniff toward the fire, then turned and lumbered back into the forest, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding and my clothes still intact.

  “Well,” Rabbit said, “that could’ve gone worse.”

  “Or better,” I muttered, shoving my clothes into my bag as fast as possible. With no time to waste, I left the fire behind me, still blazing, and bolted into the woods—naked as the day I was born.

  The cold night air hit me like a slap, and every branch and twig seemed to conspire to remind me of just how exposed I was. “This is fine,” I grumbled to myself. “This is perfectly fine. People run through forests naked all the time. Totally normal.”

  After about ten minutes of running and convincing myself I wasn’t going to die of embarrassment, I decided it was safe to stop and get dressed. But just as I pulled my bag around, Rabbit’s voice chimed in.

  “I wouldn’t bother yet. You’re going to have to cross the river again, and you’ll get wet.”

  I froze and stared at nothing in particular. “You’re telling me this now that I am dry?”

  Maybe not dry, but I was much drier than when I emerged from the water.

  “I didn’t want to interrupt your streak through the woods. You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

  I gritted my teeth and kept moving, muttering curses under my breath. After what felt like forever, we finally came across a fallen log stretching across the river.

  “There,” Rabbit said cheerfully. “That’ll make things easier!”

  Easier? Maybe for someone with better balance and less, well, nudity.

  I climbed onto the log cautiously, feeling the rough bark scratch at my feet. Halfway across, I lost my footing. The log rolled slightly, and before I knew it, I was plunging into the freezing water below.

  It wasn’t deep, as we’d chosen this spot for that reason, but everything from the waist down was soaked once again. I dragged myself to the opposite bank, miserable, with my pride firmly lodged somewhere at the bottom of the river.

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  At least I could finally get dressed and avoid freezing to death. Still, naked or not, I was starting to miss my fire. Most of my clothes were in decent shape, but my beautiful new shoes were not. They were completely waterlogged and filled with mud.

  Reluctantly, I swapped them out for my old, dry ones. They didn’t squish with every step, but they were as uncomfortable as ever—tight in all the wrong places and with soles that might as well have been made of stone.

  “You’re horribly behind schedule,” Rabbit reminded me, cutting through my moment of self-pity.

  I gritted my teeth, started running, and pushed forward. The cold clung to me, and my legs ached from the swim and the run, but slowing to a walk wasn’t an option. My breath puffed in front of me as I jogged through the woods, the damp air sinking deep into my bones.

  My Ability to heal really helped with endurance, but it came with its own brand of torment. I couldn’t run forever, but after a short jog, I’d recover just enough to start again. It was like an endless cycle of self-inflicted torture. I would run until I couldn’t stand it, walk until I caught my breath, then do it all over again.

  When the mountain loomed in the distance, I thought my journey was almost over and felt a flicker of relief. I was wrong. Huge landmarks always looked deceptively close. It wasn’t until the sound of the waterfall reached my ears that I knew I was finally nearing my destination.

  The roar of the waterfall grew louder with each step, drowning out the sound of my own labored breathing. The forest thinned as the ground sloped downward, and soon I was navigating a rocky path, damp with mist from the falls. My legs burned from the uneven terrain, but the sight of the cascading water in the moonlight drove me forward. The air was heavier here, cool and damp, making me wet once again.

  When I finally reached the base of the cliff where the waterfall from the Hidden Falls Village ended, I spotted the boat and the elevator. Relief washed over me, but there was no time to linger. I approached the lift first, pulling out a scrap of paper to pen a quick note. My writing was hurried but clear: instructions and a map for whoever might find it. Pinning the note to the lift with one of my countless arrows, I gave the rope a sharp tug, ringing the bell high above to signal the villagers that I had been here.

  Satisfied, I turned to the boat. It was a simple craft, built for utility rather than comfort, with its weathered wooden frame bearing the marks of countless journeys. The chill of the water seeped into my hands as I pushed it into the river, the current tugging at it eagerly. Climbing aboard, I steadied myself as the boat wobbled precariously beneath me, its balance far less forgiving than I’d hoped. I grabbed the oars and positioned myself in the middle seat. I had no idea if this was the correct way to do it, but it seemed logical enough.

  The first few strokes were awkward, the oars dipping too shallow or too deep, splashing water into the boat instead of propelling it forward. The current, deceptively calm from the shore, quickly asserted its dominance, pulling the craft in unpredictable ways. Each attempt to correct my course sent the boat veering to one side or the other. My arms burned from the effort, and frustration bubbled up with every clumsy stroke.

  As the river carried me further, it revealed its true nature. The current wasn’t as gentle as it had seemed as it twisted and turned, narrowing suddenly or opening into deceptively placid stretches. The water sped up without warning, forcing me to either overcorrect or slow down, leaving me to paddle awkwardly against its resistance.

  After about ten minutes, I hit my first snag—literally. The boat drifted too close to the edge of the river, and one of the oars caught in a tangle of roots sticking out of the muddy bank. The sudden jolt nearly threw me off balance, and I had to scramble to pull the oar free, which only resulted in more water splashing into the boat.

  Cursing under my breath, I pushed back toward the center of the river, only to encounter a new problem: rocks. The riverbed was shallow here, and the bottom of the boat scraped against the stones, jolting me forward and sending the boat tilting at an awkward angle. I frantically rowed, trying to find deeper water before I got stuck.

  It was no use. The boat grounded itself, the bow wedged against a hidden rock. I stood up, wobbling as it shifted beneath me, and leaned over the edge to push off. The oar pushed against the ground as I struggled to free the boat, finally managing to shove it backward with a loud scrape that made me wince.

  This went on for some time as I slowly learned what to look out for. Even as I improved, I ended up missing a crucial split in the river that I needed to take. To fix that mistake, I had to bring the boat onto the bank and drag it to the other river.

  “How do people do this for fun?” I muttered to myself, glaring at the river as if it had personally wronged me.

  “It’s like camping. People say they love it, but only when it involves air mattresses, bug spray, and zero chance of a bear mauling. You? You’re doing the unfiltered version,” Rabbit said in response to my obviously rhetorical question.

  “Thanks,” I replied, as I shoved it back into the water and tried to get my balance once again.