The training grounds were quiet at dawn. No hammers. No laughter. Only the whisper of the underground wind weaving through the cavernous ridges. The air here was cooler, sharper — like it had been filtered through stone and pride.
Targets floated in the abyss below the ledge, glowing faintly in shades of green and gold. They hovered at impossible angles, drifting just far enough that a single misstep would send one tumbling into darkness.
Recon stood near the edge, bow in hand, the string taut between his fingers. His breath made small clouds in the cold air.
Varan stood behind him — tall, statuesque, the type of presence that filled silence without needing to speak. His hair was tied back with a cord of silver, and his posture was perfect: one hand behind his back, the other resting lightly on his hip quiver.
"Again," Varan said flatly.
Recon drew, exhaled, and released. The arrow whistled through the air before it clattered off the side of the rock.
"Too high," Varan said without looking. "Again."
Recon gritted his teeth. "You don't even look, how do you—"
"Again."
Another shot. Missed.
The sound of arrows striking stone echoed through the cavern. The failures stacked like bricks in his chest.
After the fifth miss, Varan sighed and finally turned to look. "You shoot with anger," he said. "And anger is sloppy."
Recon glared. "I'm not angry."
Varan smirked. "You're not convincing anyone, beastman."
He walked past him and picked up the fallen arrows, each one cracked or splintered at the shaft. "You know what separates a warrior from a killer?"
Recon frowned. "What?"
Varan snapped an arrow in half. "Control. You lack it."
They trained for hours. Varan's voice echoed constantly, every instruction short and sharp.
"Breathe less." "Don't pull, feel the draw." "Stop shaking. You're not afraid, you're just impatient."
Recon wanted to scream. Each word felt like a blade slipping under his skin.
He loosed another arrow. This time, it grazed the edge of the target, leaving a small spark. He exhaled sharply, a hint of satisfaction forming.
Varan was silent for a moment. Then — "You think that was good?"
Recon blinked. "I hit it, didn't I?"
"You kissed it." Varan turned his gaze toward him, unblinking. "You don't aim for contact. You aim for consequence."
Recon scoffed. "You ever stop talking in riddles?"
Varan smiled faintly. "You ever start listening?"
That was the breaking point. Recon's composure snapped. "You think you're better than me, huh? Because you were born with it? Because you get to act like some enlightened prick who knows everything?"
Varan stepped closer, until they were nearly chest to chest. His voice didn't rise; it didn't need to. "I am better than you," he said simply. "Because I know what I am. And I don't waste it crying about what I'm not."
Recon's jaw clenched. "You don't know me."
Varan's eyes hardened. "I know you better than you think. You're jealous. Not of power — of purpose. You see Himmel, steady as the earth, and Texan, loyal as the sea, and you wonder why the gods gave you claws instead of wings."
He stepped back, his tone quiet but cutting. "You've been handed strength, Recon. Healing, beast blood, instincts that others would kill for. And you spend it asking for more."
Recon's fists tightened around the bow. "You don't know what I've had to—"
"I don't care. "Varan's words sliced through him. "The world doesn't care either. It owes you nothing. If you can't accept that, you'll spend your whole life clawing at air and calling it progress."
By midday, the air had turned cold. Varan led him to the edge of the abyss, where the targets were smaller — some barely the size of a coin.
"These," he said, "are your test."
Recon raised a brow. "You're kidding."
Varan gestured outward. "Hit one. Just one."
Recon squinted into the distance. The targets drifted lazily, faint wisps of light against the black. He drew his bow, ignoring the ache in his arms, and released.
The arrow vanished into darkness.
"Again."
He drew again. Released. Missed.
And again. And again.
Varan's voice was unrelenting. "You flinch every time you fail. You can't stand being less than perfect. You treat improvement like punishment."
"Maybe because I don't like failing!" Recon shouted. His voice echoed across the cavern walls. "You think I enjoy looking like a fool?"
"Then stop acting like one."
The next arrow trembled in Recon's hand. His vision blurred with frustration. "You make it sound so easy."
"It's not. But it's simple."
"Then why don't you show me, huh?"
Varan took his bow wordlessly. He closed his eyes, inhaled once, and released.
The arrow cut the air with a single whistle — and hit dead center. The target exploded into shards of light.
He handed the bow back. "Because I don't shoot to prove myself right. I shoot because someone needs to hit the target."
Recon stared at him, silent, humiliated. His heart burned with equal parts rage and admiration.
"Do you even care about what you're teaching me?" Recon said bitterly.
Varan's tone softened, just slightly. "More than you think. I don't care if you like me, beastman. I care if you survive."
The rest of the day passed in quiet strain. Varan had stopped speaking; he didn't need to. His silence spoke volumes. Recon loosed arrow after arrow until his fingers bled. Some hit close, some missed entirely. None satisfied him.
He hated the feeling. He hated the look in Varan's eyes — that knowing, calm disapproval that said you're still not ready.
By the time his quiver was empty, his bowstring frayed, and his shoulders burned, Recon's anger had cooled into something worse — reflection.
He sat at the edge of the ledge, breathing hard.
Varan approached quietly and placed a canteen beside him. "Drink."
Recon didn't. "Why do you even bother with me?"
"Because I see what you could be," Varan said. "And because I've seen what happens when someone like you doesn't change."
Recon turned to look at him. "Someone like me?"
Varan's eyes darkened. "Strong. Gifted. Bitter. I trained one before you — another orc. He was faster, sharper, maybe even stronger. But he fought for himself. Every arrow he loosed was to prove he was better. One day, he was right. He killed his entire squad during a mission. Accidentally, he said. I buried what was left."
The silence was thick.
Varan continued, voice quiet but cold. "You're on that same path. You want everything — strength, glory, recognition — but you'll end up with nothing, because you don't fight for anyone but your own pride."
Recon looked away, the words sinking deep like stones in water. "Maybe I'm just tired of being behind."
Varan exhaled slowly. "Then stop measuring yourself with someone else's ruler."
He stood and turned away. "Training's done for today."
Recon blinked, surprised. "What? That's it?"
Varan didn't stop walking. "You've improved your aim. That's enough. The rest… you'll figure out when you stop talking long enough to listen."
And then he was gone, his silhouette swallowed by the cavern light.
Recon sat there long after, the emptiness of the abyss stretching before him. His bow lay across his lap, his fingers raw and bleeding.
He picked up one of the broken arrows and turned it in his hand, watching the light fade from its cracked shaft.
He had improved — that much was true. His shots were cleaner, his draw steadier. But he felt nothing. No pride, no satisfaction. Just the same dull ache in his chest.
Varan's words echoed in his head: You fight for yourself. And that's why you'll lose.
He thought about Himmel — the calm in his voice even when chaos surrounded him. About Texan — stubborn, reckless, but always willing to bleed for others.
He hated that he admired them. He hated that they had something he didn't.
"World doesn't owe me anything," he muttered, repeating Varan's words bitterly. "Yeah, well… maybe I owe myself something."
He loosed one last arrow into the dark. It hit nothing — vanished soundlessly.
He smiled without humor. "Figures."
Far above, in his own chamber, Varan stood before a rack of soulbound weapons. The faint glow of each orb pulsed like a heartbeat. He watched them in silence.
One arrow, black-feathered and razor-tipped, rested apart from the rest. He picked it up, his reflection fractured in its surface.
"Same eyes," he murmured. "Same hunger."
He placed the arrow back on its mount and sighed. "Let's hope the next lesson hurts enough to teach him."
That night, Recon returned to the quarters late. Himmel and Texan were already asleep. Gumbo raised his head briefly before curling up again.
Recon sat near the edge of the room, looking at his bow resting against the wall. His fingers still trembled.
He didn't know if he respected Varan or despised him. He only knew one thing: Tomorrow, he'd hit the damn target. Even if it killed him.