Kael circled back through.
The bow rested against his spine, its weight familiar now, its presence quiet. He didn't stop at the bowyer's stall—only slowed enough to catch the man's attention.
"Question," Kael said.
The bowyer looked up from his work. "You already paid."
"I'm not asking about bows," Kael replied. "Who shoots best here?"
That earned him a pause.
The bowyer wiped his hands on his apron. "North gate watchtower. Old shooter named Rurik."
"How old?"
"Forty-something. Hands steady. Eyes still sharp." He jerked his chin toward the road. "Dropped a hare at full sprint last week."
Kael nodded.
The bowyer glanced at the bow on Kael's back. "You buying lessons now?"
"Yes."
The bowyer snorted. "Then don't waste his time."
Kael turned and walked on.
The north watchtower rose above the road, its wooden frame creaking in the cold wind.
A man leaned against the railing, bow in hand, running his fingers along the string, judging its tension by touch rather than sight.
Rurik glanced over as Kael approached. "You lost?"
"I'm paying," Kael said, holding out silver. "Teach me archery."
Rurik blinked, then laughed. "Straight to the point. I like that."
He took the coins, weighed them in his palm, then nodded. "We don't shoot up here."
He jerked his chin toward the yard below. "Training ground. Less wind. Fewer idiots."
The practice field sat behind the watchtower, trampled hard by boots and time. Targets of packed straw stood at varying distances, some split and patched from long use.
A few guards lingered nearby, half-watching out of boredom.
Rurik stopped at the firing line but didn't hand Kael the bow.
"Watch first," he said.
He stepped forward and set his feet—not wide, not narrow. Casual. Almost careless. His shoulders stayed loose as he raised the bow, spine straightening only at the last moment.
"Most people think this starts here," Rurik said, drawing halfway and flexing his arm. "That's why they shake."
He let the string relax.
"It doesn't."
He reset, settling his weight through his hips. The shift was subtle—easy to miss if you didn't know what to look for.
"Settle your weight," Rurik said. "Stop hauling it with your arms."
The string came back smoothly. No tremor. No strain.
He loosed.
The arrow struck dead center.
Rurik lowered the bow. "I'm not aiming harder than you. I'm just not fighting myself."
He turned and handed the bow to Kael.
"Now you try."
Kael took it.
He mirrored the stance as closely as he could. Drew. Released.
The arrow struck the target—clean, stable, but wide of center.
The system responded at once.
[ BASIC ARCHERY — PROFICIENCY: NOVICE (40%) ]
Kael absorbed the number without reaction.
He adjusted his footing slightly. Correcting what felt inefficient.
He drew again.
The second arrow landed closer.
Another update surfaced.
[ BASIC ARCHERY — PROFICIENCY: NOVICE (40.1%) ]
Rurik squinted at the target.
"...Again," he said.
Kael said nothing.
"Most people need weeks to notice what you just corrected," Rurik muttered.
Kael focused.
Two Aether Points flowed.
[ BASIC ARCHERY — ADEPT ]
Passive: Field Familiarity — Practical accuracy equivalent to long-term hunting experience[ Skill Output matches long-term field hunter baseline (~5 years) ]
The change came immediately.
Pressure spread across his upper back. Muscles tightened, then shifted into cleaner alignment. His shoulders settled. His core locked in place.
Pain followed—sharp, familiar.
Kael's expression didn't change. A thin sheen of cold sweat formed at his temples.
He drew.
The arrow struck dead center.
A few murmurs rose.
Kael drew again.
The second arrow hit the bullseye as well—but slightly off to the side, close enough to brush the first shaft.
Rurik didn't look at Kael.
He kept his eyes on the target.
"How long you been lying about not shooting?"
Kael breathed out once.
Four more points flowed.
[ BASIC ARCHERY — EXPERT ]
Passive: Lifetime Instinct — Accumulated hunting experience equivalent to a full career
Passive: Dynamic Vision — Enhanced tracking of fast-moving targets
The pain sharpened—brief, exact.
His back, waist, and arm locked together into a single structure. No wasted motion. No hesitation. The bowstring settled as if it had always belonged there.
Kael released.
The arrow didn't just hit. It erased the first. Wood splintered with a sharp crack as the new shaft drove into the nock of the old one.
Before the sound finished echoing, Kael was already moving.
Another arrow was on the string.
He loosed again—within the same breath.
The second arrow followed the same line, threading through the broken remains of the first shaft and burying itself deeper into the target behind it.
Two arrows.
Less than a second.
Silence collapsed across the training field.
A guard's mouth hung open. Another forgot to breathe.
Rurik stared at the target, then at Kael's hands.
Rurik stared at the target.
He looked back at Kael.
"...You fucking with me?"
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "How did you do that?"
Kael's shoulders trembled once, then stilled. Cold sweat traced down his jaw, but his face remained calm.
He thought for a moment.
"Maybe," he said, "I have a bit of talent."
The word landed like a slap.
Rurik barked a laugh—half disbelief, half surrender. "If that's talent, then I've been working the long way around my whole life."
No one spoke.
Kael returned the bow without ceremony.
"Thank you," he said.
Rurik took it absently, still staring at the ruined target. "If I ever figure out what the hell that was," he muttered, "I'll let you know."
Kael didn't wait for the laughter to come. He turned and walked away, leaving the field full of men who suddenly understood the distance between skill and limits.
Someone had been watching the entire time.
"…Interesting."
The word escaped her quietly.
Not just at the shots themselves.
At the speed. The control. The way the arrows followed the same line, as if distance and wind had been reduced to suggestions.
That was what made her look twice.
But what held her attention was how he left afterward. No glance back. No pause to measure reaction. No need for acknowledgment.
That mattered.
She stepped away from the edge of the field as Kael passed.
Light armor, worn thin at the edges. A travel cloak cut short for movement rather than warmth. Her build was lean, shaped by climbing rather than comfort.
Her hair caught the light—naturally red, not the deep crimson of dye. Muted. Sun-faded. Orange-red, like rusted iron under afternoon light. Wind-tangled, practical.
Highland stock, Kael noted. Mountain roads. Thin air.
His gaze brushed over her—and stalled for half a second.
Then it passed.
"You're heading north," she said. Not a question.
Kael's eyes met hers briefly—sharp cheekbones, weathered skin, eyes accustomed to distance and judgment—then moved on.
"Yes."
"So are we," she said. "Small group. Merchants and escorts."
Kael weighed it. Numbers. Terrain. Risk spread.
"Where?"
"East-road inn," she replied. "Leaving at dawn."
That aligned.
"Alright," Kael said. "I'll be there."
She inclined her head. "Lina."
Kael offered his name.
"Tom."
Before returning to the inn, Kael stopped at a side stall and bought several dense grey blocks wrapped in waxed paper.
Brick-shit.
Army ration. Long shelf life. Bare-minimum nutrition. Near-zero taste.
Too unpleasant for most soldiers. Quietly sold off, filtered through the black market, then resold to those with no alternatives—or no time.
The poor.
The desperate.
The ones traveling far.
Kael bit into the ration later that night.
The taste was the same as he remembered.
Chalk. Cold grease.
Unpleasant—but effective.
He chewed mechanically. The taste brought him back to the mud beneath the roots, to the moment his heart had stopped and restarted. But tonight, there was no Sweeper. Just the cold room and the road ahead.
He remembered reaching for his canteen then.
Remembered how light it had been.
He took a small, measured sip now. The water tasted stale, faintly of boiled leather, but it was clean. Enough.
Outside the inn, the night was still.
Cold pressed in through the walls, dry and unyielding. No wind worth naming. No sound beyond the distant creak of timber and the low murmur of voices carried from somewhere deeper in the post.
Kael swallowed the last of the ration.
Tomorrow, he would head north.
With a bow that could endure more than it should.
With a body that remembered exactly what failure felt like.
And with no intention of repeating it.
Preparation was complete.
The road could do its worst.