The doe lay still.
Lira knelt beside it, her hand on its flank, feeling the warmth already beginning to fade. The arrow had done its work. Clean. Quick. The animal hadn't suffered.
She pulled the arrow. Wiped it on the grass. Set it in her quiver.
Her hands were still shaking.
She looked at them. These hands had drawn the magic bow a thousand times, had shot arrows that pierced steel, had done things no ordinary weapon could do. But this—this was different. This was just her.
Aldric appeared at her side.
"That was—" He stopped. Swallowed.
She looked at him. "What?"
"Clean." He nodded at the doe. "One shot. She didn't suffer."
She hadn't thought about suffering. She'd thought about hitting. About proving she could still do this without the magic, without the power, without the thing that had chosen her.
"It was a good shot," she said.
"It was perfect."
She almost smiled. Almost.
---
Grog came out of the trees.
He moved through the undergrowth like it was nothing, like he'd been walking this forest his whole life. He stopped beside the doe, looked at where the arrow had struck, looked at Lira.
"Your father taught you."
It wasn't a question.
She nodded. "He taught all of us. My brothers, me. Everyone who wanted to learn."
"How old were you?"
"Seven. Maybe eight." She remembered the bow, too big for her hands, the string too tight to draw. Her father standing behind her, his hands over hers, showing her how to breathe, how to wait, how to let the arrow fly. "He said I was too small. Too young. But I wanted to learn."
Grog nodded slowly.
"You remembered."
She looked at the doe. "I remembered."
---
Mirena appeared from the trees.
She was carrying her books, her staff, the same distant expression she wore when she was thinking about something far away. She stopped when she saw the doe, looked at Lira.
"You did it."
"I did it."
Mirena nodded slowly. She didn't say anything about the magic bow, about the power Lira had left behind, about the things she'd proved today. She just stood there, present, watching.
Lira was grateful for that.
---
They dressed the doe together.
Grog showed Aldric how—the cuts, the angles, the places where the knife needed to go. It was bloody work, slow work, the kind of work that required patience and steady hands.
Aldric's hands were steady. He'd learned something in the kitchen, Marta's kitchen, the hours of kneading and shaping and waiting. His hands knew how to be patient now.
Mirena watched from a distance. Her books were open, but she wasn't reading. She was watching them. Watching the light shift through the trees, the way the shadows moved across the clearing, the way the forest breathed.
Lira worked beside Grog.
Her knife moved in the patterns her father had taught her, the patterns she'd learned as a child. The doe opened, the organs removed, the meat separated from bone. Her hands remembered.
"You've done this before," Grog said.
"Not for a long time."
"But you remembered."
She looked at her hands. They were steady now. The shaking had stopped.
"Yes," she said. "I remembered."
---
They finished as the sun began to set.
The meat was wrapped in cloth, packed into packs, ready to carry back to the keep. The remains they left for the forest—for the wolves, the birds, the things that would find use for what they couldn't use.
Aldric stood apart, looking at the spot where the doe had fallen.
"What are you thinking?" Lira asked.
He was quiet for a moment.
"My father hunted," he said. "When I was young. Before he died." He looked at her. "He never taught me. Said I was too young. Said there would be time."
She nodded slowly.
"There would have been."
"I know." He looked at the sky. "But there wasn't."
She didn't know what to say to that. So she just stood there, beside him, while the sun set and the shadows grew and the forest settled into evening.
---
They walked back to the keep in the dark.
The path was familiar now, the trees known, the turns expected. Lira led, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, her feet finding the way without thought. Aldric was behind her, carrying part of the meat. Mirena walked beside him, her staff glowing faintly, enough light to see the path. Grog brought up the rear, silent as always.
The keep appeared through the trees.
Lights in the windows. Smoke from the chimneys. The sound of soldiers talking, of gates closing, of a day ending.
She stopped at the edge of the forest.
Looked back.
The trees were dark now, the shadows deep, the paths invisible. Somewhere out there, the deer she'd killed was feeding the forest, becoming part of the thing that had made it. Somewhere out there, other deer were moving through the darkness, drinking from streams, sleeping in clearings.
She'd be back. She knew that. The forest called to her, the way it always had, the way it always would.
"Lira?" Aldric's voice behind her.
She turned.
"Coming."
---
Marta met them at the gate.
She looked at the meat, at Lira's face, at the quiet satisfaction in the way she moved.
"Good hunt?"
Lira nodded.
"Good hunt."
Marta took the meat. "I'll make something of this. Venison stew, maybe. Roast. Whatever you want."
Lira shook her head. "Whatever you think is best."
Marta studied her for a moment. Then she nodded slowly.
"Rest," she said. "You've earned it."
She disappeared into the kitchen.
---
Lira walked to her room.
The magic bow was leaning against the wall, where she'd left it. She could feel it from across the room—the warmth, the presence, the thing that had chosen her.
She didn't touch it.
She sat on her bed. Looked at her hands. The hands that had drawn the bow, that had aimed the arrow, that had killed cleanly and well.
She'd done that. Not the magic. Not the power. Her.
She closed her eyes. Saw the doe at the stream. The arrow flying. The moment when she'd known, before it hit, that it would be true.
She'd needed this. To remember what she was without the bow. To remember the years of practice, the hours of waiting, the skill she'd built before anything had chosen her.
She was enough.
She'd always been enough.
---
She found them in the kitchen.
Grog was at the table, his sword across his knees, watching Marta work. Aldric was kneading dough, his hands moving in the rhythm he'd learned. Mirena was reading, her books spread around her, her staff propped against the wall.
They looked up when she entered.
"You're back," Aldric said.
"I'm back."
He pushed a stool toward her. "Sit. Marta's making stew."
She sat.
---
That night, they ate together.
The venison was tender, the stew rich, the bread fresh from the oven. Soldiers came and went. Servants cleared the tables. The kitchen was warm, loud, full of life.
Lira sat at the end, her plate empty, her hands still.
Grog was across from her, eating slowly, watching.
"You're thinking," he said.
"Always."
"What?"
She looked at her hands. The hands that had held the bow, that had drawn the arrow, that had killed cleanly and well.
"I'm enough," she said. "Without the bow. Without the magic. I'm enough."
He nodded slowly.
"You always were."
She looked at him. At Aldric, laughing at something Marta had said. At Mirena, pretending to read, pretending not to listen. At the kitchen, warm and loud and full of people who'd become something like family.
"I know," she said. "I'm starting to believe it."