When Circe was a child, she was often overtaken by fits of anger so fierce she could barely control herself. The fury would hit without warning, and she would drop to the ground, pounding her fists against the dirt until her fingers bled. She would only stop when the rage finally drained from her body, leaving her tired and hollow.
One day, after one of these episodes, her mother took her beyond the castle walls. They followed a narrow path to a rocky outcrop not far from the gates. Among the jagged stones stood an old tree, long dead, its gray bark peeling and its twisted branches reaching toward the sky.
"Don't tell your father," her mother said quietly as they stopped in front of it. "I brought your brother here when he was your age. This is where he learned archery." Her voice was calm, steady, the kind of voice that always eased Circe's temper.
