The forest hums with life, a chorus of chirping birds and rustling leaves under a canopy of emerald green. Novak crouches low beside a gnarled oak, his fingers curled around the smooth curve of a borrowed bow. The string bites into his calloused fingertips, taut with tension. Across the clearing, a deer grazes, its ears twitching with every whisper of the breeze. The animal is oblivious, delicate, and Novak’s heart thuds in his chest—not from excitement, but from the unfamiliar weight of the weapon in his hands. Blades are his language, sharp and precise, not this clumsy tool of string and wood, but for there isn’t another choice of tools for the occasion currently.
Beside him, the blond huntress, Elara, kneels with the grace of a predator. Her eyes, sharp as flint, track the deer’s every movement. She’s been teasing him all morning, her voice light but edged with mockery, ever since he agreed to try his hands on a bow. “A man with a sword trying his hands in the wild,” she’d said earlier, smirking, “like a fish trying to climb a tree.” Novak had laughed it off, but now, with the deer in his sights, her words gnaw at him.
He exhales slowly, steadying his aim. The arrow’s fletching brushes his cheek, and for a moment, he feels a flicker of confidence. He releases the string.
The arrow flies, a fleeting streak of motion—and misses. It veers wide, embedding itself in a tree trunk with a dull thunk. The deer startles, its head snapping up, but it doesn’t bolt. Novak curses under his breath, his cheeks warming.
Elara stifles a laugh, her blue eyes glinting with amusement. “Nice shot, little fencer,” she says, rising to her feet. “Maybe stick to waving your sword around.”
“It’s not that little,” Novak mutters, but there’s no venom in his voice. He hands her the bow, shaking his head. “Show me, then. Prove your prowess as a hunter.”
Elara’s grin widens, all teeth and confidence. She nocks an arrow with fluid ease, her movements a dance of instinct and practice. She draws the string back, her posture steady as stone, and releases. The arrow sings through the air, a perfect arc, and pierces the deer’s skull with a sickening crack. The animal collapses instantly, a heap of fur and stillness.
Novak lets out a low whistle, genuinely impressed. “Good shooting,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips. He steps forward, studying the fallen deer, and a thought creeps into his mind: why did he choose to be a fencer? A bow, in the hands of someone like Elara, seems a far better tool for survival in this wild, untamed world. He tries to chase the memory, to recall the moment he picked his path, but it slips away like water through his fingers. The harder he grasps, the faster it fades, leaving only a vague ache in his chest.
He shakes his head, pushing the thought aside. No use dwelling on it now.
“Should we carry it back?” he asks, nodding toward the deer.
Elara tilts her head, sizing him up. “You should be at least a power level three fencer, aren’t you? Pulled that bowstring like it was nothing. You carry it.”
Novak raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. A deer, even a hefty one, shouldn’t be a problem. “Fine,” he says, slinging his pack tighter against his back. He heaves the deer onto his shoulders, its weight settling heavily but manageable. Elara watches, arms crossed, a faint smirk playing on her lips.
They set off down the sunny forest road, the path dappled with golden light. The air smells of pine and earth, and a nearby waterfall roars softly, its mist catching the sunlight in fleeting rainbows. They pass an abandoned bandit camp, its fire pit cold and scattered with broken crates. Novak’s eyes linger on the wreckage, wondering what stories it holds, but Elara keeps walking, her steps light and sure.
“You know,” she says after a while, “you should visit the trainer back in the village. You’re at that level now. A new skill might be available to learn.”
Novak grunts, adjusting the deer’s weight. “Yeah, maybe. Don’t want to upset Miss Mara.”
Elara laughs, a bright, infectious sound. “Nobody does. But seriously, Novak, we’re in the same boat. Stuck in this little village, getting stronger one step at a time. Might as well make the most of it.”
He nods, her words settling comfortably between them. The village isn’t much, but it’s home—for now. And Elara, for all her teasing, is good company. They walk in companionable silence, the forest stretching endlessly around them.
The village square is quiet when they arrive, the cobblestones gleaming under the midday sun. Today is a spirit day, a time when most folk stay indoors, whispering prayers or tending to private rituals. The only sounds are the creak of a sign swinging in the breeze and the distant cluck of chickens. Novak sets the deer down near the butcher’s stall, rolling his shoulders to ease the ache. Elara strides toward the merchant, a wiry man with a pinched face, and soon they’re haggling over the price of the kill. Her voice carries, sharp and unrelenting, and Novak hides a smile. She’s a force of nature.
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He settles onto a bench, the wood warm against his back, and stretches his legs. The village feels like it’s holding its breath, the stillness almost unnatural. He’s about to close his eyes when a shadow falls over him.
“Get off that bench,” a voice growls.
Novak opens his eyes to find a man looming over him, broad and bristling with menace. The stranger’s face is weathered, his dark hair streaked with gray, and his eyes burn with a smug, simmering anger. A heavy axe hangs at his belt, its blade nicked but sharp.
Novak leans back, keeping his tone light. “Or what?”
The man’s face reddens, veins bulging at his neck. “Don’t test me, boy.”
Novak’s fingers itch for his sword, but it’s back at the cave—he’d left it behind, thinking a simple hunt wouldn’t call for it. All he has is the knife strapped to his thigh. He holds the man’s gaze, weighing his options. “I’m not looking for trouble,” he says evenly.
The man snarls and, without warning, swings his axe downward in a vicious arc. Novak’s instincts kick in; he rolls off the bench, the blade splintering the wood where he’d been sitting. Heart pounding, he yanks his knife free and lunges, aiming for the man’s side. But the stranger is faster than he looks. He grabs Novak’s wrist, twisting hard, and the knife clatters to the ground.
Before Novak can react, a fist slams into his face. Pain explodes across his cheek, and he staggers, but the man still grips his wrist, yanking him forward. Another punch lands, then another, each blow a hammer against his skull. Blood fills Novak’s mouth, hot and coppery, and his vision blurs. His face feels like it’s caving in, each hit flattening him further. He swings blindly with his free hand, but it’s like striking stone.
Suddenly, a blur of motion—a boot connects with the man’s side, sending him hurtling forward. He crashes into a house across the square, the impact shaking the walls and kicking up a cloud of dust that spirals toward the sky. Novak collapses to his knees, gasping, his face a mess of blood and swelling.
Elara stands over him, her bow slung across her back, her expression unreadable. She offers a hand, and he takes it, hauling himself up. His legs wobble, but he forces himself to stand.
“Why didn’t you help sooner?” he croaks, wiping blood from his chin.
She smirks, infuriatingly calm. “A little beating once in a while doesn’t hurt, does it?”
Novak glares, too battered to argue, and focuses on not passing out. The commotion has drawn a crowd—or rather, one person. Mara emerges from her home, her presence commanding despite her small frame. Today, she’s dressed in noble finery, silks of deep blue and gold, and her hair, usually gray, glows like sunlight. Novak blinks, unsure if it’s a trick of his battered mind.
Mara’s eyes sweep over the scene—the splintered bench, the unconscious man slumped against the house, Novak’s bloodied face. “You,” she says, pointing at Novak. “You’ll pay for the damages.”
He gapes, incredulous. “I didn’t start this!”
She cuts him off, her voice sharp as a blade. “You participated. That’s enough. And you’ll cover the man’s treatment, too.”
“But—” Novak gestures toward Elara. “She’s the one who knocked him out!”
Mara’s gaze doesn’t waver. “The winner isn’t punished, Novak. This is the rule of our village.”
He opens his mouth to protest, but the words die in his throat. Mara turns and glides away, her golden hair catching the light. The weight of her authority settles over him like a yoke. Elara claps a hand on his shoulder, her touch firm but not unkind.
“Tough luck, friend,” she says, that damn smirk still on her face.
Novak doesn’t respond. His face throbs, his pride stings, and the village square feels smaller than ever. He spits blood onto the cobblestones and wonders, not for the first time, what he’s doing here—why he’s fighting, why he’s bleeding, why he’s still a fencer in a world that seems to favor hunters and winners. The answers, like always, slip just beyond his reach.
The rest of the day passes in a haze. Novak cleans himself up at the inn, the cracked mirror reflecting a face that looks more bruise than flesh. The merchant takes the deer, and Elara splits the coin with him, though it barely covers what Mara’s likely to demand for the damages. He keeps his knife close now, its weight a small comfort against his thigh.
Elara finds him later, leaning against the inn’s wall, staring at the sunset. The sky burns orange and pink, a fleeting beauty that feels out of place after the day’s chaos. She doesn’t tease him this time, just stands beside him, her shoulder brushing his.
“You’re tougher than you look,” she says finally.
He snorts, wincing as it jostles his bruised face. “Didn’t feel that way back there.”
She shrugs. “You’re still standing. That’s something.”
He doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t. They watch the sun dip below the horizon, the village sinking into twilight. Somewhere, a dog barks, and the wind carries the faint scent of woodsmoke. Novak’s mind drifts back to the deer, to Elara’s arrow, to the fleeting thought of choosing a different path. Why a fencer? Why not a hunter, or something else entirely? The question gnaws at him, but the memories—those crucial moments of decision—are gone, like pages torn from a book.
“Trainer tomorrow?” Elara asks, breaking the silence.
“Yeah, New skill might help.”
She nods, satisfied, and pushes off the wall. “Get some rest, Novak. You’ll need it.”
He watches her go, her silhouette blending into the dusk. Alone now, Novak touches the hilt of his knife, grounding himself in its familiar weight. The village is quiet again, but it’s a restless quiet, full of unseen currents. He knows he’ll pay Mara’s price, one way or another. He knows he’ll keep fighting, keep bleeding, keep searching for answers that might not exist.
For now, though, he heads back to the cave, the ache in his bones a reminder that he’s still here, still moving forward. It’s not much, but it’s enough.
