Chapter 196: Learning Archery!

The forest was quiet in an almost artificial way.

Not a dead silence—but that living silence, laden with small sounds that only existed because no one spoke too loudly. The distant rustling of leaves, the occasional snap of a branch, the discreet song of some bird that hadn’t yet decided to flee.

Damon stood between two trees, bow in hand.

And clearly uncomfortable.

He spun the object once, assessing its weight, the curve of the wood, the tension of the string. It wasn’t bad. Well-made. Balanced. Still, it felt… wrong in his hands. Very different from the familiar solidity of a spear.

“You’re holding it like it’s going to attack you,” commented Aria, standing beside him, arms crossed. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” Damon replied, too tense to lie well.

Aria raised an eyebrow.

“Damon… you defeated thirty knights single-handedly. But now it seems someone handed you a wild animal.”

“I prefer things that respond to me up close,” he murmured. “Spear, sword… a bow depends too much on distance.”

“That’s exactly why it’s useful,” she countered. “Not every fight starts face to face. And not every meal will jump in front of you with a sword in hand.”

Damon sighed and adjusted his posture, as she had instructed. Foot slightly apart, shoulders aligned, bow raised without excessive rigidity.

“Okay. And now?”

“Now you stop thinking of this as a weapon of war,” Aria replied. “And start thinking of it as survival.”

She took two steps forward, pushing aside some branches, and pointed to the ground.

“Footprints. See?”

Damon leaned forward, examining the lightly marked earth.

“Deer,” he said after a moment. “Small.”

Aria nodded.

“Good eye.” She glanced at him sideways. “But a good eye is useless if you make noise like a lame horse.”

He grimaced.

“That was unnecessary.”

“It was necessary.”

She moved first, with light, almost silent steps. Damon followed, trying to imitate her, failing at first until he realized it wasn’t about strength or technique—it was about attention.

Every step thought out. Every branch avoided.

When they stopped, Aria raised her hand, signaling silence.

She pointed ahead.

Among the trees, partially hidden by the vegetation, the deer grazed unhurriedly.

Damon felt his heart race.

“Now,” Aria whispered. “Arrow.”

He carefully nocked the arrow.

“Less force,” she murmured. “You’re not going to cross a castle.”

Damon adjusted.

He raised the bow.

And then…

The world seemed to shrink.

There was no more forest. Nor Aria. No past, no titles, no expectations.

Only the target.

“Breathe,” she said softly. “Don’t fight the trembling. Accept it.”

Damon pulled the string.

The bow vibrated slightly under the tension.

For a second, he thought of the spear. The direct impact. The certainty of hitting the target.

And he missed.

The arrow left too early, missing the deer, which raised its head and disappeared in a quick leap among the trees.

Silence.

Damon lowered the bow slowly.

“Shit.”

Aria exhaled through her nose.

“First time,” she said. “It was expected.”

“Still…”

“Damon.” She turned her face to him. “You’re not here to prove anything.”

He stared at her.

“Then why am I here?”

The answer came accompanied by a memory.

…

“Teach him to hunt.”

Elizabeth sat at the table, her expression serene, her fingers intertwined as if she were talking about something trivial.

Aria, standing in front of her, blinked once.

“Hunt?”

“With a bow” Elizabeth continued. “And basic survival. Tracking. Silence. Patience.”

“He’s a knight” Aria replied. “Not a forest ranger.”

Elizabeth smiled slightly. “Exactly. Knights die when they think the world will always confront them head-on.”

She tilted her head. “And bows are necessary in this world. In wars, ambushes… and when you can’t afford to fight up close.”

Aria was silent for a few seconds.

“He’ll complain.”

“Of course he will.”

“He’ll miss a lot.”

“Great.”

Aria sighed.

“I make.”

…

“Because someone thought you needed it,” Aria replied in the present tense, looking at Damon. “And honestly? I agree.”

She took another arrow and placed it in his hand.

“Again.”

Damon took a deep breath.

This time, he didn’t try to control the bow.

He tried to listen to it.

He pulled the string less stiffly. He adjusted his arm. He waited for the right moment.

The arrow flew.

Not perfectly.

But it hit.

The deer didn’t fall immediately, but the arrow sank cleanly. The animal ran a few meters before falling.

Damon stood still, watching.

“I…” he swallowed hard. “I hit it.”

Aria nodded.

“It hit where it needed to. It wasn’t pretty. But it was effective.”

They approached the animal in silence.

Damon knelt beside the deer, observing it for a moment, respectfully. “It’s not like fighting,” he murmured.

“No,” Aria agreed. “It’s different. But necessary.”

She placed her hand on his shoulder for a second.

“Welcome to another way to survive.”

Damon stood up, bow still in hand.

Maybe… he didn’t hate that weapon so much after all.

Damon remained silent for a few seconds after that, observing the deer’s body stretched out on the ground. There was no glory there. No euphoria. Just the stark realization that something alive was no longer there.

He exhaled slowly.

“It’s strange,” he said finally. “In battle, I never think about it.”

Aria knelt beside him, examining the wound with a technical, almost clinical gaze.

“Because in battle, if you stop to think, you die,” she replied. “Here… you have time.”

She took the knife strapped to her leg and extended it to him.

“Finish what you started.”

Damon hesitated for a moment, but took the knife. He did what needed to be done carefully, without haste, without disrespect. When he finished, he wiped the blade on the damp grass and stood up.

“You did well,” Aria said, rising as well. “Many people tremble. Or try to finish too quickly.”

“It didn’t seem right to do this in such a rush,” he replied.

She watched him for a moment longer than necessary.

“You overthink things,” she commented.

“Says the swordswoman who analyzes her opponent’s every breath.”

“Touché.”

Aria skillfully tied the deer for makeshift transport and began to walk, gesturing for Damon to follow her. The bow was still in her hands, now held with less awkwardness.

“Tomorrow we’ll practice shooting on the move,” she said casually.

Damon grimaced.

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“I thought this was… complementary.”

“And it is.” She glanced sideways. “But complementary doesn’t mean optional.”

He let out a resigned sigh.

“Elizabeth planned this from the beginning, didn’t she?”

“She did,” Aria replied without hesitation. “She always plans.”

The walk back was silent. Not an uncomfortable silence, but one of those that only exists when two people know exactly what the other is thinking—or when they don’t need to know.

When the mansion finally emerged from among the trees, Aria broke the silence.

“You hate bowing,” she said.

“I hate depending on it,” Damon corrected.

“Still, you learn quickly.”

He shrugged.

“Survival.”

She paused for a moment before entering through the side gates.

“Damon.”

He turned.

“You’re not bad at it,” Aria said. “You just don’t trust yourself when you’re not close enough to feel the impact.”

He thought about it for a moment.

“Maybe,” he replied.

She nodded once and continued on.

Damon stood still for a few seconds, looking at the bow in his hands. Then he ran his fingers over the wood, feeling the marks of use, the natural wear.

It wasn’t a spear.

It never would be.

But maybe… it didn’t need to be.

…

Morgana stood in the center of the duke’s office, her arms relaxed at her sides, her posture too casual for someone standing before the most powerful figure in the Duchy of Arven. The tall windows let in the afternoon light, which cut through the room in golden bands and accentuated the contrast between the two.

The duke remained seated behind the wide oak desk, his hands clasped, his gaze fixed on her as if he were assessing an ancient blade—beautiful, dangerous, and impossible to fully control.

“So…” Morgana broke the silence, her voice strangely calm. “You want me to recruit him?”

The duke didn’t answer immediately.

She tilted her head slightly, as if truly considering the question for a second. Then, without warning, she began to laugh.

It wasn’t a light laugh.

It was loud. Uncontrolled. Almost aggressive.

She brought her hand to her face, her shoulders trembling, the sound echoing through the silent office.

“Ah…” she said between laughs. “This is too good.”

The duke frowned.

“Morgana…”

She composed herself suddenly, the laughter dying as quickly as it had appeared. Her eyes locked onto his, sharp as blades.

“Are you eating shit, you old hag?”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush any other man in that room.

The butler, standing near the door, held his breath. He had seen arguments between father and daughter before, but this… this was different. There was something raw there. Ancient.

The duke didn’t stand. He didn’t shout. He didn’t bang his fist on the table.

He simply took a deep breath.

“Moderate your tone,” he said coldly. “You’re still talking to the Duke of Arven.”

Morgana took a step forward.

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m speaking to the man who forbade me from wielding a sword. Who chose a political wife over his own daughter. Who now, suddenly, remembers my existence because he’s found an interesting knight.”

She opened her arms wide.

“And wants me to go to him. Like a good, obedient little dog.”

The duke’s eyes narrowed.

“You oversimplify things.”

“I simplify because you complicate things to hide your cowardice.”

She moved even closer to the table.

“Damon isn’t a pawn. He’s not a resource. He’s a person. A person you ignored when he was under your roof. A person who left… and never came back.”

Her hand clenched into a fist.

“And now you want me to go to Wykes Manor, smile nicely, and say, ’Hi, remember me? Want to serve Arven again?’”

She let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Pathetic.”

The duke rested his hands on the table and finally stood up.

“You don’t understand what’s at stake.”

“I understand perfectly,” Morgana retorted. “You saw what he did. Thirty knights. One dead. And not on impulse… through competence.”

She tilted her head.

“You’re afraid.”

The word landed like a direct blow.

The duke didn’t deny it.

“I’m cautious,” he corrected. “A man with that level of skill, trained in Arven, now under the influence of Elizabeth Wykes… that’s a strategic risk.”

“Then send your diplomats,” Morgana replied. “Your emissaries. Your political games.”

She turned her face away, staring at the window.

“Don’t use me as a bridge.”

“You’re the only one he can hear.”

She froze.

The silence returned, thicker than before.

“You don’t know that,” she said finally.

“I know,” the duke replied firmly. “Because, despite everything, he respected you. Perhaps even more than me.”

Morgana clenched her teeth.

For a moment, something almost painful passed before her eyes.

“Respect isn’t a leash,” she said.

She turned back to him.

“If I go to Wykes Manor… it won’t be for you. It won’t be for Arven. And it won’t be to recruit anyone.”

She walked toward the door.

“It will be because I want answers.”

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