The forest was quiet beneath the morning sun, only the faint hiss of wind in the pines and the distant call of a jay breaking the stillness. Lytavis stood with her bow in hand, her small frame tense with concentration. Beside her, Athelan watched in silence, golden eyes patient, steady as the earth itself.
She drew, breathed, and loosed. The arrow struck.
The deer leapt, startled, and bounded into the underbrush. Not fallen - wounded.
Lytavis froze, bow lowering. "I hit it," she whispered, voice trembling. "But it didn't…" Her throat closed around the word.
Athelan laid a hand on her shoulder. "Not every arrow kills clean. Now you learn the harder part. Come."
They followed the trail together, Athelan showing her the signs: droplets of blood on the leaves, the uneven press of hooves, branches broken in sudden flight. Lytavis's stomach tightened with every step. She had wanted so badly to prove she could strike true, and instead she had caused suffering.
At last, they found the deer in a small clearing, its flank heaving, its legs trembling. The arrow jutted awkwardly from its side. It tried to rise, then fell again, eyes rolling white with fear.
Tears stung Lytavis's eyes. "I hurt it."
Athelan's voice was gentle, but firm. "Yes. But you will not leave it to suffer. That is the other duty of the hunter: respect. Mercy."
He guided her hands, showing her where to place the second arrow, how to steady her breath. Lytavis loosed, and this time the deer fell still.
She lowered the bow, tears slipping free. "I wanted it to be quick. I didn't want it to hurt."
Athelan crouched beside her, his hand resting briefly against her hair. "We always try for a clean kill. But when it fails, this is what matters - that you do not turn away. That you carry the weight, and you honor the life you take."
They knelt together, and he taught her the words once more. She laid her hand on the deer's cooling flank and whispered, voice thick but steady:
"Thank you, majestic one. May your spirit be embraced by Elune, knowing that you have served your purpose.
Afterward, Athelan showed her how to field dress the deer. The work was heavier than rabbits - blood thick, hide tougher, the knife harder to guide - but Lytavis did not flinch. Her hands shook, but she learned, because to turn away felt like betrayal.
By the time they returned to the Ariakan estate, the sun had dipped low, their arms heavy with the burden of meat and hide. Zoya looked up from the garden in surprise; Lucien set aside his book, brows rising.
"A deer?" he asked, wonder softening his voice.
Athelan inclined his head. "Her first."
Lucien's gaze fell on his daughter - flushed, weary, but proud in a quiet, sorrowful way. He nodded once. "Then you'll stay and share the meal with us."
That evening, they dined together at the Ariakan table. Zoya prepared the venison with herbs from her garden, Lucien poured wine, and Lytavis sat between her parents and her teacher, the taste of the meat reminding her of the lesson she had learned: that every arrow carried weight, and respect was as important as skill.
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
The bow teaches more than the arrow ever does. It teaches patience, humility, and the silence between breaths. But today, it taught my daughter mercy.
She bore the harder lesson with trembling hands, yet she did not turn away. Her tears did not shame her; they honored the life she took.
It is not the weight alone that shapes her, but the way she bears it - with reverence, with courage, with a heart that still grieves even as it learns.