Pain had a way of humbling even the most determined hunter.
Nussudle learned this quickly as he stood at the edge of a small clearing just beyond the inner reaches of Home Tree, his bow held awkwardly in his hands. The forest was quiet, save for the distant calls of unseen creatures and the faint rustle of leaves far above. Morning light filtered through the canopy in fractured beams, illuminating the target ahead of him—a simple woven disc hung from a branch, unmoving and unforgiving.
Nayat'i stood a short distance away, arms folded, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp. She said nothing as Nussudle drew the bowstring back, his injured arm trembling under the strain. The muscles protested immediately, a sharp, insistent pain radiating from his shoulder down to his forearm. His teeth clenched as he tried to hold the draw steady.
"Don't force it," Nayat'i said at last. "You're compensating too much."
"I can manage," he replied through a tight breath.
The arrow wavered. His grip faltered. With a sharp exhale, he released.
The arrow flew—but weakly. It dipped almost immediately, striking the ground well short of the target with a dull thud.
Silence followed.
Nussudle lowered the bow, frustration burning hotter than the pain in his arm. "Again," he muttered, reaching for another arrow.
Nayat'i stepped forward, placing a hand gently but firmly on his wrist. "No. Not like this."
He looked at her, irritation flickering across his face. "If I stop now, I'll never rebuild the strength."
"That's not strength," she countered calmly. "That's stubbornness. And you know the difference."
He hesitated, then sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. She was right, and that somehow made it worse.
They continued training throughout the day, adjusting their approach. Nussudle practiced balance, posture, and controlled movement rather than power. He learned to draw halfway, to release smoothly without strain. It felt wrong—like admitting defeat—but the system remained silent, offering no shortcuts, no hidden solutions. This was something he had to endure.
As the sun climbed higher, sweat clung to his skin and exhaustion settled deep in his bones. When they finally stopped, Nayat'i handed him a flask of cool water.
"You're improving," she said.
He snorted softly. "That was barely shooting."
"It was learning," she replied. "There's a difference."
He glanced at her, studying the way light caught in her eyes, the calm certainty in her expression. "You always sound like an elder when you say things like that."
She smirked. "Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might start acting like one."
Despite himself, he laughed. The sound eased some of the tension coiled in his chest.
That night, long after Home Tree had settled into its quieter rhythms, Nussudle slipped away on his own. The forest at night felt different—alive in subtler ways, shadows deeper, sounds sharper. Bioluminescent plants glowed faintly along the paths, casting soft blues and greens across the bark and leaves.
He carried his bow again, though this time without expectation. The pain was still there, a constant reminder of his limits, but he moved carefully, deliberately.
He tracked a small nocturnal creature through the underbrush, following the faint disturbances in the foliage. When he finally raised his bow, the familiar resistance met him once more. His injured arm shook as he tried to draw fully.
It wouldn't go.
No matter how he adjusted his stance, how carefully he breathed, the strength simply wasn't there. The arrow slipped from his fingers and fell soundlessly to the forest floor.
Nussudle lowered the bow slowly, staring at it as though it had betrayed him. "Not yet," he whispered, unsure whether he was speaking to himself or to the forest.
A soft rustle nearby made him turn.
"You're going to reopen that wound if you keep doing this."
Nayat'i stepped out from behind a cluster of glowing ferns, her silhouette outlined by their light. She carried her own bow, slung casually over her shoulder.
"You followed me," he said, a mix of surprise and embarrassment colouring his voice.
She shrugged. "You're not as quiet as you think. And I had a feeling you'd try this."
He looked away. "I needed to know."
"And now you do," she replied gently.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The forest breathed around them, distant calls echoing through the canopy.
"Come on," Nayat'i said eventually. "There's something I want to show you."
She led him to a nearby tree—ancient and towering, its trunk wide enough to house several platforms. Without hesitation, she began to climb, her movements fluid and confident. Nussudle followed more slowly, careful with his injured arm, but she waited whenever he lagged behind.
They emerged into the upper canopy, where branches stretched wide and sturdy. From there, the forest opened up beneath them, a sea of shadow and light. Above, the sky was clear, stars scattered like fragments of glowing stone across the darkness.
They lay back against the broad branch, side by side, gazing upward. The world felt distant up here; the worries of training and recovery softened by the vastness overhead.
"In a few weeks," Nayat'i said quietly, "we'll be called to claim our ikran."
Nussudle swallowed. "I know."
"You're nervous."
"Of course I am," he admitted. "It's not just a challenge. It's… everything."
She nodded. "Bonding with an ikran changes you. It demands honesty. Strength. and trust." She paused. "And it doesn't care if you're ready."
He turned his head slightly to look at her. "Are you?"
She smiled faintly. "I think so. Or at least… I hope I am."
They fell into a comfortable silence, watching the stars drift slowly as the planet turned. Nussudle felt the weight of the future pressing gently against him—the Hallelujah Mountains, the system's quest, the expectations of his clan. And beside him, Nayat'i, steady and real, grounding him more than he realized.
He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look at her properly. She turned toward him, curiosity flickering in her gaze.
"Nayat'i," he said softly.
"Yes?"
"I—" He hesitated, words tangling in his throat. The moment felt fragile, balanced on the edge of something irreversible.
She waited.
Before doubt could stop him, he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. It was brief, uncertain, more instinct than intention.
Her hand came up immediately, resting against his chest—not forceful, but firm enough to stop him.
"Nussudle," she said quietly.
The warmth drained from the moment like water from cracked stone. He pulled back at once, his face burning. "I'm sorry," he blurted. "I didn't mean to— I mean, I did, but—"
She sat up, her expression unreadable. "You should go back," she said. "You need rest."
"Oh," he said lamely. "Right. Yes. Of course."
She stood, moving toward the trunk without looking back. "Good night, Nussudle."
"Good night," he echoed, the words tasting hollow.
He remained there long after she left, staring up at the stars that now seemed colder, more distant. Embarrassment churned in his chest, mingling with regret and confusion. Had he misread everything? Had he pushed too far, too soon?
Eventually, he climbed down and returned to Home Tree, his movements slow and heavy. The healing pod welcomed him with its familiar glow, but it offered little comfort this time.
As he lay back, staring at the living ceiling above, Nussudle closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. His arm still hurt. His future felt uncertain. And somewhere between the stars and the forest floor, he had crossed a line he didn't yet understand.
Sleep came slowly, tangled with dreams of wings, falling skies, and a pair of greenish-yellow eyes he could not look away from—nor quite reach.