Date: November 1, 540, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
The first ice appeared on the puddles by the doorstep, and the morning breath began to spread as a thick, milky-white fog. Dur's sleep, always light, was broken not by a sound, but by the piercing cold seeping through his thin blanket. He opened his eyes in the pre-dawn twilight of the hut. Embers still glowed in the hearth, casting trembling orange reflections on the frost-covered logs of the walls. Beside him on the hard bunk, Torm already lay motionless, but Dur knew he wasn't asleep—he was listening to the forest's awakening, like a conductor listening to an orchestra tuning up.
Silently, trying not to creak the floorboards, Dur slid off the bed. His first movement wasn't a stretch, but towards the roughly made chest where his now only possessions lay—his bow and knife. He ran his fingers over the string, checking its tension, then touched the blade of the knife. This was a morning ritual, a confirmation of reality.
"Enough fondling the iron," came a low, smoke-roughened voice from the bunk. "Stoke the stove. Fetch water."
Dur nodded, even though Torm couldn't see him. He threw on a worn but dense sleeveless vest made of wolf hide, a gift from the hunter, and went outside. The air was cold and sharp as a knife blade. It burned his lungs, but at the same time invigorated him, washing away the last remnants of sleep. The path to the well had been trodden by his own feet over the past weeks. The ice on the well frame had to be broken with a heavy stone. Dur lowered the bucket; his jacket sleeve got wet from the splashes, and the familiar, soul-clutching discomfort made him freeze for a moment. But it was no longer a paralyzing fear, just an unpleasant sensation that needed to be endured. He hauled up the full bucket, gripping the handle tightly with his frozen fingers.
Returning to the hut, he threw some dry logs into the hearth, fanned the flames, and living warmth slowly began to fill the cramped space. While Torm got up and silently started sharpening his hunting knives, Dur prepared breakfast—reheating yesterday's stew. His actions were precise, almost mechanical. No unnecessary movements, no fuss. It was a dance of survival, where every step was honed by necessity.
After breakfast, when the sun had just peeked over the tops of the pines, painting the frost pink, they went out to the training ground—a cleared patch behind the hut. Here stood an old log, scarred with cuts, and on it, at a distance of twenty paces, a target was drawn with charcoal.
"Stance," Torm threw out, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed on his chest.
Dur sighed, feeling the cold air fill his lungs. He assumed his usual position: left foot slightly forward, right foot slightly back, torso turned. He raised the bow, feeling the familiar weight of the wood in his left hand. His right hand reached for the string. His fingers—index and middle—rested on it just below the arrow nock. His thumb pressed against the edge of his jaw.
"Keep your back straight. Don't hunch like an old bear," came another correction. Torm's voice was even, without irritation, but also without approval. A statement of fact.
Dur straightened his back, feeling the muscles between his shoulder blades tense. He inhaled, drawing the string. The muscles in his shoulder and back, no longer as thin as before, tensed to the point of trembling. He remembered the first days, when the string barely moved and his fingers were rubbed raw. Now he could pull it almost to his ear, though it still required colossal effort.
He aimed. His eyes merged with the target. The world narrowed to a black charcoal smudge on the cracked wood. His breath stopped. He released the string.
*Twang!*
The string, snapping back, emitted a sharp, resilient sound. The wooden arrow, lacking a head so it could be used again and again, whistled through the air and embedded itself in the log. Not in the center of the target, but not completely off either. Somewhere near the edge.
"Elbow higher," said Torm. "You drop it when you release the string. The force goes down, not forward."
Dur silently nodded. He walked to the log, pulled out the arrow, checked the shaft for cracks, and returned to his mark. He felt neither disappointment nor anger. Only fatigue in his muscles and cold in his fingertips. He assumed the stance again. Raised the bow again. Drew the string again, this time watching the position of his elbow. Released the arrow again.
And so on, time after time. Fifty. Seventy. A hundred shots. The hand holding the bow began to go numb from the strain and cold. The fingers of his right hand, despite the rough leather finger guards, reddened and began to ache. His back throbbed. But he didn't stop. Stopping would mean the cold had won. That fatigue was stronger than his will.
Torm occasionally offered corrections, sometimes just silently watched. His own patience seemed boundless. He didn't demand instant success. He demanded one thing: not to stop.
By noon, when the sun was already weakly warming, Dur finished. He lowered the bow, feeling a shiver run through his overworked muscles. He rubbed his face with his palm, wiping the frost formed from his breath off his eyelashes.
"Now the knife," said Torm, pointing to another, softer log designated for chopping.
The day was just beginning. Ahead were lessons in tracking, gathering firewood, cleaning hides if Torm brought back prey from checking his traps. But this morning ritual with the bow was the most important. It wasn't just muscle training. It was spirit training. Every shot was a silent answer to that childhood fear that had once paralyzed him by the river. Every new callus on his fingers was a brick in the wall he was building between himself and his old, weak self.
He looked at his reddened but firm hands, then at the target bristling with his arrows. He hadn't become a master in these weeks. He hadn't even become a good shot. But he had become stronger. And in the harsh rhythm of this new life, in the pain of tired muscles and the quiet satisfaction of a job done, he found a strange, bittersweet consolation. Here, in the wilderness, under the watch of a silent hunter, he was slowly squeezing out of himself that naive boy who thought a dream was enough for an adventure.