The Ariakan villa woke in its usual hush, marble floors cool beneath the morning light. Zoya stood at the garden threshold, hands busy with nervous motions—straightening her shawl, smoothing an already smooth braid. When Lytavis emerged, bow slung across her back, her mother reached to brush a strand of silver hair from her brow.
"Stay sharp," Zoya murmured, voice soft but firm. Then she tucked a starlight rose behind her daughter's ear. "For luck."
Lucien sat at his small table, quill scratching in steady rhythm. He did not look up at first, but the tight shift of his jaw betrayed more emotion than his silence. When Lytavis paused in the doorway, he raised his eyes at last, gaze sharp and proud.
"Remember—survival is knowledge before it is instinct. Think first."
Athelan arrived without fanfare, his golden eyes calm and unreadable. He bowed politely to Lucien and Zoya, then turned to Lytavis.
"It's time," he said simply.
She nodded, straightened her shoulders, and followed him out through the gates.
The woods beyond Suramar were damp with last night's rain, the air sharp with wet bark and moss. Athelan set no tasks at first. He walked in silence, patient as stone, waiting. Lytavis matched his pace, steps light, ears straining to catch what the forest said back.
At last, he stopped.
"Make fire."
Lytavis's pulse quickened. The tinder in her pouch was dry, but every twig she touched seemed waterlogged. She clawed moss from the dry side of an old cedar, tore bark shavings until her fingers bled splinters. The flint sparked, hissed, died. Again. Again. Her hands shook with frustration.
She closed her eyes and heard her father's words—knowledge before instinct. She shielded the shavings with her body, let the moss breathe smoke until it finally caught. Flame wavered in the storm's breath, but she cupped it close, steady, fierce. The fire held.
Athelan gave a single nod. "Good. Again."
The day unfolded in quiet trials:
Tracking: By a streambank, he pointed only to a bent reed. She crouched, tracing faint scuffs until she found where a deer had crossed, following the prints to trampled grass.Foraging: He handed her a pungent leaf. She chewed, grimaced, spat. "Poison." His eyes gleamed.Stealth: She slowed her breath until a hare darted past, close enough to touch. Skye nearly spoiled it with a caw, but at her gesture the raven wheeled upward instead, circling to scout.
Then, as the sun began its slow descent, the sky darkened without warning. Clouds rolled heavy and fast, swallowing the light. The first fat drops of rain struck the leaves with sharp percussion, then came in sheets.
"Shelter," Athelan said, his voice nearly lost to the rising wind.
Lytavis moved without hesitation. She gathered fallen branches and broad leaves, binding them with strips of bark, hands slick with rain and mud. The air smelled of wet earth and smoke. Each knot held firm beneath her fingers; the small structure rose, crude but steady. She angled it against the slope, wedging stones at the base until it held.
When she finally crouched beneath it, breath ragged, the rain dripped from above—loud, but no longer punishing.
Athelan stood just beyond the opening, water running from his hair, watching. His face revealed nothing.
"What did you learn?" he asked at last.
Lytavis swallowed, voice hoarse from smoke and rain.
"That I can persevere."
He inclined his head once, and nothing more was said.
By late afternoon, a young deer bent its head to drink from the stream. Her bow was in her hands, string taut. The world narrowed to heartbeat, breath, target.
Then the deer lifted its head. Water dripped from its chin, eyes wide, steady. Lytavis lowered her bow.
Athelan stepped from the trees. "Why?"
"There's no need," she said simply.
For a long moment he studied her, golden gaze unreadable. Then he inclined his head.
"You're ready."
Dusk painted the villa in violet light as they returned. Lamps flickered to life, warm against the marble.
"She's ready," Athelan told Lucien and Zoya, voice steady. "Next time, she goes alone."
Zoya's breath caught. She reached for her daughter, brushing dirt and twigs from her hair, hands trembling with the urge to hold her fast. "Come back to us," she whispered.
Lucien said nothing. He only set a hand on Lytavis's shoulder, firm and sure—the weight of pride and fear pressed into that single gesture.
Lytavis stood between them, the starlight rose still tucked behind her ear. Her heart thudded with nerves, but beneath it was something steadier, fiercer.
She was ready.