Anders Skjold learned that strength had a horizon.
It came to him not through the system—not through pressure or a glowing command—but through observation. He watched men train with spear and shield, watched axes bite into wood, watched the way distance decided fights long before muscle ever mattered.
Reach ended arguments before they began.
A man with longer arms struck first.
A spear ended a charge.
An arrow decided a battle without ever meeting a shield.
Anders was strong now. Dense. Controlled. His shield felt lighter each week. His wooden sword obeyed him more readily, its uneven weight no longer punishing careless motion because there was less carelessness to punish.
But all of it required proximity.
He could imagine the fight he could not yet reach.
That bothered him.
The system did not speak.
But the familiar sense of expectation settled into him anyway—not pushing, not directing, simply reminding him that preparation was not finished.
So Anders watched.
He watched hunters loose arrows at deer from the treeline. He watched guards practice snap shots with short bows near the palisade. He noticed how quickly they fired—and how little power their arrows carried once distance stretched.
He noticed where they drew to. Chest-high. Sometimes no farther than the shoulder. Fast. Efficient. Limited.
The bows themselves were short, curved, thick-limbed. Built for quick use. Built for skirmish and forest fighting.
They were not wrong.
They were just incomplete.
Anders did not ask for a bow.
He did what he had learned to do whenever the system presented a silence instead of instruction.
He began to build.
The first thing he learned was that most wood was useless.
Not brittle—wrong.
Some bent too easily, losing tension before power could build. Others resisted flex entirely, cracking under strain the moment the draw length increased. Anders tested branches the way others tested knives—slow pressure, listening with his hands, feeling how the grain answered force.
He rejected most of it.
What he needed was length.
Length and patience.
He found the right stave near the edge of the woods, half-fallen, long-grained, with a subtle curve that spoke of tension rather than weakness. It was taller than he was. Taller than it should have been for any bow in this land.
When he dragged it back toward the longhouse, someone laughed.
Then stopped laughing when they saw how carefully he handled it.
The shaping took time.
Too much time, some thought.
Anders scraped wood away slowly, shaving, testing, shaving again. The first version bent unevenly—one limb flexing too much, the other too little. When he drew it, the tension twisted the stave dangerously.
He stopped.
Adjusted.
Shaved more from the stiff limb. Reinforced the weaker one with careful wrapping. He overcorrected once, thinning too far near the tip. When he drew again, the wood creaked sharply, fibers protesting.
He released immediately.
That bow went into the fire.
No anger. No frustration.
Just data.
The second bow lasted longer.
The third held.
What emerged after days of patient work was wrong to the eye of the clan.
It was long.
Longer than any bow they used. Straight-limbed. Simple. No aggressive curve. No decorative horn tips. No reflexed shape meant for speed.
This bow was built for draw.
For leverage.
For power earned slowly and released cleanly.
An English long bow—though no one had a word for that yet.
When Anders strung it, the string hummed softly, vibrating through the wood like a held breath.
People noticed.
Hunters paused. Warriors frowned. Someone muttered that the thing looked impractical. Too slow. Too tall. Too much effort for too little return.
Then Anders drew it.
Not to the chest.
Not to the shoulder.
He drew past his ear.
The bow bent smoothly, evenly, storing tension instead of fighting it. The arrow—crude shaft, blunted tip for training—rested steady against his fingers.
He held.
The silence that followed was immediate.
When he released, the arrow flew farther than expected. Straighter. It struck the dirt well beyond the usual range, burying itself deeper than it should have.
No one laughed after that.
"This is wrong," someone said quietly.
Not accusing.
Unsettled.
It was wrong because it did not belong to this age. Because it demanded patience instead of speed. Because it turned distance into inevitability.
Astrid answered the questions that followed with a single sentence.
"He made it himself."
That unsettled them more than the bow.
Anders added archery to his routine without ceremony.
Strength at dawn.
Archery mid-morning.
Shield and sword in the afternoon.
He practiced stance first. Feet planted. Hips square. Back straight. He practiced drawing slowly, letting tension build without shaking. When his arms trembled, he held anyway—learning where his limits lived now.
Accuracy came second.
He did not chase hits. He chased repeatability. The same draw. The same anchor. The same release. When an arrow flew wide, he retrieved it without comment and tried again.
He adjusted his grip. Adjusted his stance. Adjusted his breathing.
The system said nothing.
But Anders could feel it watching in the same way it had watched his endurance, his strength, his discipline.
This counted.
The messenger arrived near midday.
He rode hard, dust clinging to his cloak, spear haft marked with the sigil of Clan Broken-Spear. He brought no escort. No threat. Only words.
Their chief wished to speak.
Alliance, perhaps. Or at least understanding.
Erik received the message calmly. He did not posture. He did not refuse.
"He is welcome in my hall," Erik said. "We will talk."
The messenger bowed, relieved.
Then he waited.
And while he waited, he watched.
At first, he thought Anders was playing.
Then he noticed the bow.
He frowned.
That bow was wrong.
Too long. Too plain. Too heavy-looking for a child. He watched Anders draw it—slow, controlled, patient beyond reason. Watched the full draw settle. Watched the release.
The arrow flew.
The messenger swallowed.
He had seen many bows across many clans. Short bows. Horn bows. Reflexed bows. Fast bows meant for skirmish and hunt.
He had never seen this.
He asked carefully, "How old is the child?"
Someone answered casually.
"Three winters soon."
The messenger went quiet.
He watched Anders retrieve his arrows, reset his stance, draw again. Watched him miss—and adjust without frustration.
This was not imitation.
This was training.
When the messenger left, he carried Erik's invitation.
He also carried a story.
A strange bow.
A child who trained like a man.
A clan that did not flinch when shown something that did not belong to its time.
Anders did not notice the significance.
He was focused on his breathing.
On the feel of the string.
On the way distance obeyed patience.
Behind him, the world had begun to look back.
Not with fear.
Not yet.
With curiosity.
And curiosity, Anders would one day learn, was the most dangerous beginning of all.