Page 40

Thud, Thud

“ W hat’s her name?”

“Nothing, of course.”

The sun drapes over my forehead, shoulders, and arms, trying in vain to darken my skin.

It doesn’t know it’s a losing battle. Doesn’t know that I’m a sun elf, immune to its ultraviolet touch.

I absorb its light and let it strengthen me, but my skin will stay as brilliantly white as the snow in Valeanrae.

I wear a cropped, matte-black top and fitted breeches that stop at my knees, maximizing exposure.

Not that I have many options that pass for normal.

Most clothes here are strangely rigid, with sharp, unnatural cuts.

This time, we’re alone.

No audience, no prying eyes, just the two of us, deep in a secluded stretch of Nimuala. Fields stretch endlessly around us, rolling in every direction, broken only by the scattered silhouettes of Palmyra palms. Behind us, Gorgoroth looms.

I don’t need my eyes to know. I feel the open expanse, hear the chorus of frogs, the raucous calls of parrots, and the whisper of wind threading through the trees. And I remember. I see it in my mind as the last time I stood here. Sight or not, I know this place.

Netharu’el tightens the final buckle on my leather forearm guards, his fingers closing firmly around mine.

He guides my hand along the bow’s curved frame, his touch warm, smooth, searing against my skin.

“This one will be perfect. She hasn’t formed Vho’an with anyone yet and isn’t particularly choosy. She obeys most.”

“So, a bow for beginners?”

“I assumed a longbow would be too taxing for your short arms, so this is a Delaric horse bow. Crafted from the three sacred woods of Eleryan, a blend of willow and?—”

“Made by smooth ears ?”

“Of course. You didn’t actually think I’d lend you one of the prized bows from Kaspien? Or Vasvinennian?”

“Isn’t there anyone who?—”

“This is the one you’ll use.”

“Fine. You’re the boss, aren’t you?”

“Excellent. You’re learning.”

I pull a face. “Must feel nice, calling the shots. Knowing you have power.”

He snorts, stepping closer as he guides my fingers along the bow’s polished wood. “Feel her. Do you get along? Do you think she’ll obey you?”

“Oh, without a doubt.” I pout playfully. “Bows love me.”

“Don’t be so sure. Delarion specializes in bows that are easy to handle and obedient. They’re forgiving, even to beginners. Even to sun elves.”

“As forgiving as my fist against your jaw.”

He bursts into laughter. “You never cease to amaze me, my dear.”

He pulls my hand to the bow’s tip, where the body meets the drawn string. “This is the nock.” He presses my index and middle fingers to the string, guiding me as I pull and release, letting it hum a soft, quivering note in the air. “And this is the bowstring.”

“The bowstring?”

“Not the string.”

He shifts so close that his sun-warmed arms graze mine, his scent wrapping around me: wild roses, grass, the earth itself woven into his clothes. His fingers find mine again, guiding them back to the bow’s smooth, curving body.

“This is the upper limb,” he murmurs, tracing the arc. “And here, near the center, is the back of the bow. The inside is called the belly.” His touch slows. “Feel how it thickens?”

I nod.

He guides my hand to the middle section, where the leather-wrapped grip is rough against my palm. “This is the grip. And if you ever call it a handle, you’ll run five laps around Nimuala.”

His fingers shift mine lower, firm and deliberate. “And here, beneath it, is the lower limb.”

“Bow nock, bowstring, upper limb, back, grip, and lower limb.” I nod to myself. “Got it.”

Netharu’el releases me, stepping back, leaving me alone beneath the sun’s relentless heat.

“And the belly,” he reminds me. “Don’t forget that. Now aim for the target.”

“And where in all the fires is that?”

“Feel before you ask, my dear.”

The bow feels foreign in my hands. Unfamiliar. Yet beneath my fingers, it’s fluid, elegant, strange, and responsive. I run my fingers along the sacred woods of Eleryan, doing everything I can to show the bow that she can trust me.

“I can’t sense the target. It’s impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible. The only limits are the ones you set in your mind. Think, sun elf. Is there a sense that might?—”

“Yes, yes, smell. I know.” I exhale sharply. “But you’re forgetting one thing. I don’t even know what the target is made of.”

“What do you think?”

“Wood?” I shift my weight, the dry grass whispering beneath my feet.

“Correct. You’re catching on.”

The nearest wood, besides the bow itself, is to my right.

I turn toward it, reach for my waist, and pull an arrow from the quiver.

Three fingers find the bowstring as I draw back, my right hand steady but straining, the tension peaks.

I can’t pull any farther. But I don’t release.

Not yet. Not until I know where I’m aiming.

I have a rough sense of the target’s location but nothing precise.

“I’m not about to skewer anyone, am I?”

“I certainly hope not. But if your aim is as bad as it looks, I doubt you’ll hit anything at all.”

I flare my nostrils, trying to pull the target into my awareness. I tilt the bow slightly to the right. No—left again.

“He doubts? That’s reassuring,” I mutter.

“Feel your surroundings. Become part of them. Be the bow, the arrow in flight. Surrender yourself to your senses.”

I let go abruptly, mostly to cut off Netharu’el’s cryptic monologue, which sounds like something out of a Panrielya parody or the ramblings of an old witch.

The arrow hisses through the air, slicing forward, but no impact follows. No satisfying thunk.

“Five elf-lengths too far left,” Netharu’el says, unimpressed. “Again. This time, kneel.”

“Kneel?”

He doesn’t answer.

I obey without argument. Fighting it isn’t worth the effort.

The grass brushes against my calves, warm and alive. I focus not by overthinking, but by surrendering to instinct. The moment I catch the scent, I let the arrows fly one after another, three in rapid succession.

A sharp hiss. A whispering rush. A slicing tear through the air.

Draw back. Release. Draw back. Release. Draw back. Release.

Then, a solid thunk . An impact. I hear it, crystal clear.

“I hit it, didn’t I?”

“You did, my dear sun elf.”

“Yes!” I fling the bow aside, grinning so wide my lips stretch past my teeth. A real smile. Did I? Did I really?—

“But not the target.”

The smile vanishes. “Then what did I hit?”

“Something else entirely.”

“You’re kidding.”

I rip off the blindfold, and sunlight strikes like a blade.

A sharp, searing ache blooms behind my eyes—a headache and disorientation, as if I haven’t seen in endless sun cycles.

It feels like I’ve just been born, helpless as a stumbling fawn.

My vision swims, my skull pounds from the shock of light, but then…

I see it.

The arrow has struck something. It’s buried deep in… the target’s post.

“I hit it! I hit the post!”

A breathless laugh escapes me as I slap a hand over my mouth.

I jump, weightless for a second, and for a fleeting, reckless moment, I almost throw my arms around Netharu’el’s neck, but I catch myself just in time.

He watches me, his horns larger than I remember.

Thick and curved, their ridges smooth until the ends taper into wicked, sharpened points.

Sunlight catches them, making them gleam like spilt oil.

I wonder how sharp they are, if they could cut like blades.

“I saw that,” he says, his voice smooth, unhurried. “But the post wasn’t your target. The target is higher.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he studies me, something unreadable in his gaze. “Here, let me show you something.”

He lifts the bow from the grass, his movements fluid and effortless. Bending down, he pulls four arrows from the quiver at my waist.

He’s wearing a matte-black sleeveless tunic snug against his torso and breeches of sable-brown leather. His arms are bare, lean muscle shaped by precision rather than excess. They’re strong but not swollen, defined but not veined.

As he draws back the bowstring, the bow forming a taut triangle, he looks formidable—like a dark warrior, a demon.

His magnificent horns complete the striking silhouette. That thin, black aura still clings to him, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing. Perhaps it’s an illusion, or perhaps his skin is so intensely dark that it emanates something: heat, mist, power.

“Observe,” he says. “This time, place the arrow on the right side of the grip.”

“Why? In Valeanrae, everyone shoots from the left. It keeps the balance with a three-finger draw. Otherwise, the arrow skews to the side.”

He lifts an eyebrow, shooting me a swift, sideways glance. “You don’t need to teach me archery, Iszaelda. I know exactly what I’m talking about. I shoot from the right, using a thumb ring, not a three-finger draw.”

“But when I?—”

“Initially, this technique is more challenging. But once you master it, you’ll shoot faster and with greater precision than anyone else. Now watch.”

I watch. And I’m stunned.

Netharu’el moves—no, sprints—toward the target, his long hair whipping behind him. Arrows fly from his bow, released in fluid succession, one after another, so fast the next is already in flight before the first fully clears the string. It’s over in a spark.

Every single arrow is buried in the center of the target.

“What do you think, sun elf?”

I cross my arms. “That was hardly impressive, was it?”

“Really? Not even the slightest?” Netharu’el lifts a brow. “At dawn, we can review how?—”

“Zelda!”

Acranta strides toward us, her sleek hair swaying over her shoulders, her hazelnut-brown tunic hugging her frame.

Beside her walks another star elf. Striking, with bold features, keen eyes, full lips, and hair woven into intricate rasta braids, a cascade of violet, black, and winter white.

“Hey!” Acranta calls. “The trials are in a few days. You’re competing, right? Oh, and this is Jelethia Beey of Natagari. Vaast’s apprentice.”