Final Cut
Scene 1 — The Bow
"Keep your arm stable as you pull back. Maintain that position as if your body were the bow itself.
"Take a deep breath as you draw the arrow. Now exhale slowly as you release your fingers."
Bale stood behind me, guiding my arms with steady hands as I held the bow in place. His grip was firm without being rough, the kind that corrected without making it feel like pity. I followed his instructions exactly.
The arrow flew.
It struck the carved target in the tree.
Bale nodded once and stepped back, gesturing for me to try again on my own.
I picked up another wooden arrow and placed it against the vine-string. Pulling it back was easy.
Too easy.
Strength wasn't the issue.
I inhaled.
Released.
The arrow missed the tree entirely.
"Hahaha! I told you, Ty! He'd miss. You owe me a spear when we get back!"
I rubbed the back of my head and looked over at Bale.
He was grinning.
Not mocking.
Enjoying it.
"Control, my boy," he said calmly. "You did everything in one motion without mastering step one. Your arms were wobbling, and you only took half a breath because you were in a rush."
I looked down at the bow.
It didn't feel complicated.
That was part of what irritated me.
It was just wood. Vine. Arrow. Motion.
And I was still missing.
"You're stronger than most kids, that's for sure," Bale continued. "But if you can't maintain control over the bow, then your strength is pointless. Try again."
So I did.
Again.
And again.
Draw. Hold. Breathe. Release.
The sun shifted overhead while I kept repeating the same motions. My shoulders burned first. Then my fingers. Then the muscles in my back started complaining in a way no fight with a Minor God ever had. That part felt insulting.
By the time the hunters returned, dust-covered and carrying game across their backs, they were talking about camp and food while I was still standing there with the bow.
Bale didn't stop me.
Which meant the lesson wasn't over.
So neither was I.
Scene 2 — The Priestess
"It's the elders from the village! They're traveling with the priestess!"
I ignored the noise.
Bale had ordered me to hold the bow at full draw—without an arrow—until my arms trembled hard enough to remind me the body still had limits, even when the rest of me preferred pretending otherwise.
"What a determined student you've found, Bale," a familiar voice said. "Would you like an apple, young one?"
I turned my head just enough to see her.
An elderly woman stood before me, her forehead marked by a black dot with streaks of dried animal blood radiating outward. Priestess. Elder. Mortal. Yet the weight around her was steadier than most gods deserved.
She extended an apple.
"Thank you."
I bit into it while returning to position.
The sweetness hit first.
Then the memory behind it.
Running from Thanatos through distant Minor Worlds. Stolen fruit. Breathing hard and laughing anyway because getting caught always felt less important until the moment I actually got caught.
The priestess watched me with the kind of calm that suggested she knew more than she was saying and had already decided how much of that knowledge was worth revealing.
"Yes, little one," she said gently. "If you wish to continue learning like a child, I will maintain your secret."
I nodded once.
That was enough between us.
She joined Bale and the hunters near the fire without pushing further. I appreciated that more than I wanted to admit.
Around them, camp settled into a rough shape. Tents went up. Meat was dressed. Water got passed around in skins that smelled of leather and old hands. A few of the younger hunters kept glancing my way, probably expecting me to quit once nobody was watching closely enough to make pride useful.
I kept holding the bow.
My arms shook.
The vine-string pressed hard into my fingers.
I focused on the tree ahead.
Not because I needed the target anymore.
Because Bale had been trying to force something simpler into me all day.
Stillness.
Not the stillness of death.
Not the stillness of command.
Just control.
And those weren't the same thing.
Scene 3 — The Story
Later, Bale handed me a slab of meat from the fire.
"You did better. We'll refine your stance over time. Eat."
I took it without arguing. Hunger made the decision easy.
"Priestess," Ty called out with a grin, "tell the kid a story."
She smiled faintly.
Not indulgent.
Knowing.
"I will tell you how our village came under Lord Hades' protection."
The hunters quieted by degrees. Firelight moved across their faces, catching tired eyes, sweat-dried skin, and the easy attention of mortals who still knew how to listen when stories carried survival inside them.
The priestess lowered her gaze to the flames.
"We once lived beneath the territory of a Minor Snake God of the Forest. He allowed us to remain so long as we respected his resting grounds."
The fire cracked softly.
"Then one day, he woke as if enticed by something. Hunters died. He encircled the village and demanded tribute."
I kept eating without interrupting.
Around me, the hunters leaned in slightly. Even the ones who clearly knew the story already still listened. That was another mortal thing I'd started noticing. They repeated the stories that fed their structure. Not because memory was weak. Because memory needed ritual to stay sharp.
"On that day," the priestess said, "we met our savior. Lord Hades. And with him, the Prince of Black Flames and the Right Hand of Hades, Thanatos."
I stared into the fire.
Not at the priestess.
Not at Bale.
Just the flames.
"The snake devoured something it should not have," she continued. "A ball of fire darker than the moonless night. A dark flame of warmth that burned without smoke."
Ty nudged me with his elbow.
I ignored him.
"And so," the priestess said, "we began growing apples as tribute. We pray to Lord Hades, to the Prince of Black Flames, and to Thanatos. Each family chooses which to follow more closely."
Ty nudged me again, less subtly this time.
"Maybe if you offer enough apples, Lord Hades will favor you."
I nodded absently.
That got a laugh out of him, probably because he thought I was humoring the story instead of listening to my own myth being handed back to me through mortal mouths.
The elder sitting beside the priestess narrowed his eyes at my forehead.
"To think the boy bears a mark our sect praises…"
The priestess beckoned me closer.
I went.
She began braiding my hair with fingers gentler than I expected.
"Such a birthmark would not go unnoticed among the tribes," she said. "Especially not now."
Ty grinned wider. "Can you make it like Thanatos's hair?"
She chuckled softly. "That depends on whether he deserves the style."
That got another round of laughter from the hunters.
I let them talk.
As they moved from stories to discussion—pathfinders between tribes, offerings, routes, which settlements might listen and which would need proof first—I kept my eyes on the fire.
The flames moved without hurry.
No wasted motion.
No struggle to be what they were.
Control.
That was what Bale had really been teaching me.
Not strength.
Not precision by itself.
Control.
And maybe that was why a bow annoyed me more than a battlefield ever had.
Because battle let strength hide its flaws.
A bow did not.