The woods wrapped around us like a cloak as Quintin and I moved slowly beneath their green and brown visages. It was cool and dry, and we were downwind. I walked silently behind my adoptive father while he paced forward, his eyes trained on the trees. Occasionally, he’d stop to examine tracks on the ground.

  It was our first day hunting together. He told me to watch, observe, and try not to make any noise. Quintin gave me a cloak and a hunting knife but told me not to play with the knife or use it unless there was an emergency. Like me, he wore a cloak, but he also had leather armor on his chest, legs, arms, and joints. He had no weapons at his side or on his body other than a quiver of arrows on his hip.

  “Stop,” ordered Quintin. “Do you understand what I’m doing?” he asked me quietly.

  “Not at all,” I admitted.

  “Right.” Quintin scratched his head. “Never taught anyone anything before.” He cleared his throat. “I’m tracking a deer.”

  “How?”

  Quintin then spent fifteen minutes discussing footprints, what they told him, and why they mattered. Then, we moved into a short segment on feces and brush breakage.

  After the brief lesson, Quintin asked me to assess what we should do next based on what he told me. I gave him answers, and then he pointed out the things I missed or that were inaccurate. We repeated this several times until I began to understand.

  “You’re picking it up faster than I thought you would. But you’ve always been smarter than most, so I don’t know why I’m surprised,” admitted Quintin. “We’ll make a hunter out of you yet. Stick with it. Learning to take care of yourself will ensure that if anything happens to me or Amalia, you’ll be able to survive.”

  “Don’t die so I don’t have to,” I replied.

  Quintin chuckled. “We’ll try not to.”

  For some reason, while talking through hunting and tracking with Quintin, my mind “remembered” how to do so, and in ways better than Quintin taught me—like I’d done it before.

  I wasn’t given any actual context for the skill—a montage of scenes of the past version of me didn’t replay inside my head. Instead, I suddenly just knew what to do. In fact, it suddenly felt odd that I even needed Quintin to teach me in the first place.

  It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened. Certain stimuli or information would cause my brain to learn a skill at an extremely deep, detailed level like a master. I assumed it had something to do with my past life. Every time it happened, it made me wonder who I must have been. It is how I learned to read, write, and cook so quickly. My brain just “remembered” things like I’d done them all my life.

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  Quintin held his hand out in front of me to stop, but he didn’t say the words. I looked around for a reason and spotted it immediately—a deer. It was munching on vegetation near the base of a fallen tree.

  My father put his hands together and opened them like a booklet outward. As he did, particles of white mixed with different dotted colors—reds, blues, and yellows—formed silently into the shape of a book. He turned a page and reached his hand inside. It disappeared into the magical paper halfway up to his elbow before he pulled it back, bringing his massive bow with it.

  I’d seen it countless times before, but the way adding and removing items worked in a codex always captivated me.

  Quintin tossed his codex behind him. Before it could hit the ground, it shattered like rain into the same particles it was formed from.

  The entire time, the marks on his fingers and wrists glowed the same color as his eyes—a brilliant bright green. Even his eyes got brighter. It always happened whenever someone used their mana to create magic.

  Quintin already had a quiver of arrows strapped to his side. He silently pulled out one with a broad tip and placed it against the string of his bow.

  I watched with anticipation as he pulled back the arrow. His breath was steady. The bow adjusted upward in his hands, tilting and rectifying until he had the first angle.

  And then—

  Thunk!

  The arrow darted from his string and caught the deer right in its throat just as it looked up. It collapsed on the ground screaming, its legs kicking out and its head thrashing against the brush.

  “Come on. Let’s put it out of its misery,” said Quintin. He shoved his bow back into his codex and removed a large hunting knife in the same motion.

  The deer’s cries lessened with each step we took toward it. It got slower and slower until its legs and head were barely moving. Even the soft rise of his torso was thin and weak.

  Quintin carefully knelt down and finished the deer off with his blade, ending its suffering.

  The sight of death sent a rush running through my spine. It was so random, so powerful a feeling, I flinched. What was that?

  “Don’t be afraid,” said Quintin as he looked at me, clearly assuming my action was drawn from fear and shock. “Something’s got to die for us to eat, be it an animal for meat or bugs, birds, and rodents for crops. Nothing in life is gained without sacrifice. Surviving means something dies.” He shifted the blade in his hand. “Now, watch how I butcher this guy. Next time we’re out, I’m gonna have you try this, okay?”

  Why should I care about the life of something that doesn’t affect me? I thought. As long as I and those I care about live, everything else is of little consequence. But I didn’t say that out loud. Instead, I nodded, fascinated by the blood pooling under the creature’s lifeless form.

  When the deer was properly butchered and packed away in Quintin’s codex, we returned home. As soon as we got in the yard, Amalia ambushed me, slamming me with question after question about how things went, and checked me for wounds. Afterward, we ate dinner, and they discussed future adventures involving me.

  That night, while everyone else was asleep, I imitated the way Quintin fired his bow.

  The imaginary wood sat comfortably in my left hand. With my right, I pulled back the pretend weapon’s string. An arrow was notched. On my bedroom wall, I envisioned the scenery changing. Snow dotted the background. A demon was standing off in the distance, blood covering its face.

  “Die,” I whispered as I let the imaginary arrow fly.