The hunt was Voren's idea.
Not the Duke's kind of hunt—no nobles, no fanfare, no killing for sport. Just a day in the forest, tracking game, remembering what it felt like to move through trees instead of stone corridors.
"You've been healing," he said at breakfast. "All of you. Now it's time to move."
Lira was the first to agree. "I've been shooting at targets for weeks. I need something that moves."
She'd been practicing with the magic bow every day, testing its limits, learning its rhythms. But the targets were still. The yard was familiar. She needed something that breathed, something that ran, something that made her remember why she'd learned to shoot in the first place.
Aldric looked uncertain. "I've never hunted."
"Then you'll learn." Voren's voice was matter-of-fact. "Grog knows how. Lira knows how. You'll follow. You'll watch. You'll learn."
Mirena shook her head. She'd been in the tower with the other mages until late the night before, pouring over maps and old texts. Her eyes were tired, her mind elsewhere. "I'll stay. There are texts I need to—"
"You'll come." Voren's voice was firm. "The books will be there when you return. The forest won't wait."
She opened her mouth to argue. Closed it.
They went.
---
The forest was different from the borderlands.
Softer. Older. The trees were thicker here, their branches wider, their roots deeper. The undergrowth was dense, tangled, full of places for things to hide. The paths wound where the borderland tracks were straight, curving around ancient oaks, following the contours of hills that had been here longer than anyone remembered.
Grog led.
His body remembered this. The silence, the patience, the way to move without sound. His wounds were healed now, the scars pink and new, but the muscles remembered. The instincts remembered. He moved through the trees like he'd been born in them, each step placed with care, each breath measured.
Behind him, Lira followed. Her eyes were on the ground, on the trees, on the spaces between. She was reading the forest the way she'd been taught, the way she'd learned before the magic bow, before the battle, before everything changed.
Aldric was behind her, trying to match their silence. He was better than he'd been—the weeks in the keep had smoothed some of his rough edges—but his feet still found the wrong places, his weight still shifted at the wrong moments.
Mirena brought up the rear, her staff in her hand, her eyes on the forest around them. She wasn't hunting. She was watching. Learning the shape of this place, the way the light fell, the way the shadows moved.
---
Grog stopped at a clearing.
He dropped to one knee, his hand raised, his eyes on the ground. The others froze behind him, following his lead.
He pointed.
Tracks. Fresh. The earth was still soft where hooves had pressed into it, the edges not yet dried by the morning air. Deer, moving toward water. Three of them, maybe four, moving slow, moving careful.
Lira moved ahead.
She was good at this. Better than she'd been before the bow, before the power, before the thing that had chosen her. She read the tracks the way she read the wind, the way she read the faces of soldiers before a battle.
"A buck," she said quietly. "Young. His antlers are just starting. A doe with him, older. And a fawn. Still spotted."
Grog nodded. "Water?"
"There's a stream. Half a mile east. They'll be there by midday."
They moved.
---
The stream was narrow, shallow, its banks soft with mud. Trees crowded close on either side, their roots reaching down to drink. The water moved slow, almost still, catching the light that filtered through the leaves.
Lira found a place to wait.
A fallen log, half-hidden by ferns, close enough to see the stream, far enough to stay hidden. She settled in, her bow across her knees, her breathing slow.
Aldric was nearby, crouched behind a tree, watching her, watching the stream. Mirena had found a patch of sunlight further back, her books spread around her, her staff across her lap. She wasn't hunting, but she was present. That was enough.
Grog was somewhere else. Lira couldn't see him, couldn't hear him, but she knew he was there. Watching. Waiting.
---
They waited.
The forest was quiet around them—birds calling in the distance, insects buzzing in the undergrowth, the soft rustle of leaves in a breeze that didn't reach them. The stream murmured, the only constant sound, the only thing that didn't change.
Lira let the silence settle over her.
She'd learned patience as a scout. The hours of watching, the days of waiting, the art of becoming part of the landscape. But that was before. Before the bow, before the battle, before the thing that had chosen her had made her something more.
Now she had to learn it again. Patience without power. Waiting without the certainty that she'd hit what she aimed at.
She watched the stream.
Nothing moved.
---
Aldric shifted behind her. She could hear him, even though he was trying to be quiet. His weight on the leaves, his breath held too long, his impatience barely contained.
She didn't turn. Didn't speak. Just waited.
After a while, he settled. His breathing evened out. His weight found a place that didn't crackle. He was learning.
They waited.
---
The sun climbed higher. The shadows shortened. The stream glittered, silver and gold, the light shifting with the breeze.
Lira's legs were numb. Her back ached. Her eyes burned from staring at the same stretch of water for hours.
She didn't move.
This was the test. Not the shot. The waiting. The patience. The willingness to be still when everything in her wanted to move, to act, to do something.
The magic bow would have made her faster. Better. The arrows would have flown where she wanted, hit what she aimed at, never missed.
She'd left it at the keep.
This was just her. Her skill, her patience, her will. The things she'd learned before the battle, before the power, before anything.
She waited.
---
Grog appeared beside her without sound.
She didn't startle. She'd known he was there before he moved, felt his presence the way she felt the wind, the water, the light.
"You remembered," he said quietly.
She looked at him. "Remembered what?"
"How to wait."
She thought about that. The hours in the forest when she was young, learning to be still, learning to become nothing, learning to let the world forget she was there.
"I never forgot," she said.
He nodded. Moved away. Disappeared into the trees.
She waited.
---
The deer came at midday.
Not the buck she'd tracked—a doe, older, her coat gray against the trees. She moved slow, testing the wind, testing the water, testing the silence. Her ears were forward, her nose working, her eyes scanning the stream, the bank, the shadows where things might hide.
Lira didn't move.
The doe stepped closer. One step. Another. Her head lowered toward the water.
Lira drew.
Not the magic bow—a regular one, borrowed from the keep's armory. Wood and string and nothing else. Her arms remembered this. Her hands remembered. The years of practice, the thousands of arrows, the muscle memory that didn't need magic.
She aimed.
The world narrowed. The stream, the trees, the light—all of it faded. There was only the doe. Only the space between her arrow and its mark. Only the breath she held, the breath she released.
The arrow flew.
It struck exactly where she'd aimed. Behind the shoulder, through the heart. The doe dropped where she stood.
Lira lowered the bow.
Her hands were shaking.