Ashstone's air bit harder outside the library.
The moment Kel stepped out, cold rushed against his face, slipping under his collar like a silent knife. The sky remained a low, unbroken stretch of pale grey. Snow fell in light threads now—no longer the heavy curtain of earlier, but a constant, slow descent of white dust, as if the world were being erased grain by grain.
He drew his cloak closer, checking the weight of the bow on his back and the quiver at his hip.
Knowledge weighed nothing.
But the bow was real.
The arrows were real.
And what waited beyond Ashstone's walls would not be moved by words on a page.
Only book knowledge is not enough.
The thought cut through him with quiet clarity.
I've seen too many players die that way. Theory without blood is fantasy.
I need practical assessment. Real-time understanding of what my body can and cannot do.
He turned away from the library.
Toward the north side of town.
Where the sound of metal on metal rang faintly through the falling snow.
The Training Grounds
The public training field of Ashstone spread along the inner side of the northern wall—a long strip of hard-packed earth and trampled snow, bracketed by low stone barriers and weapon racks. Torches burned in iron sconces along the wall, their flames guttering in the wind, adding sickly gold streaks to the grey afternoon.
Kel stood at the edge for a moment.
Watching.
Soldiers.
Mercenaries.
Hunters.
They moved in groups, each gathering around their chosen art.
To his left, swords clashed—wooden and steel, the rhythmic clack and ring of practiced drills forming a crude kind of music. Men and women in leather and mail ran sequences, their blades drawing arcs through the air, breath steaming as they shouted, stepped, turned.
Further in, a cluster of fighters practiced double-blade forms—faster, more fluid, steel flashing in mirrored rhythms. Beyond them, spears whistled, stabbing through straw dummies stacked in rows. The impact of wood shafts slamming through stuffed torsos thudded like distant heartbeats.
Heavy hammers rose and fell near the far end—each strike sending bursts of snow and dirt into the air as they slammed mock shields and reinforced logs.
Daggers gleamed in narrower space, close-combat practitioners weaving in and out of invisible lines, their steps sharp and silent.
And along the rightmost side—
Archery targets.
Circular straw butts lined in a long row, set at staggered distances. Archers stood in lines before them, some armored, some in simple hunting leathers, each with bow drawn, arrows nocked, breath held.
Strings thrummed.
Arrows flew.
Some struck near center.
Some scattered wide.
The heavy thump of impact cut through the ambient noise like a second heartbeat.
Kel's gaze settled there.
On distance.
On rhythm.
On the language of arcs and silence.
He walked forward.
Snow crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the packed yard. No one stopped him; a few turned their heads briefly, eyes flicking over the pale boy with a wrapped bow and too-calm gaze.
Then they returned to their training.
This was Ashstone.
Strangers were common.
Only weakness drew true attention.
Kel reached the far right end of the archery line.
An unclaimed gap stood near the edge—far enough from the bulk of the group to avoid crowding, close enough to blend in.
He stepped into that empty space.
Unwrapped his bow.
The dark wood caught muted light, its smooth curve absorbing what brightness remained.
He slid the quiver strap into place more firmly across his chest, the arrow fletching rustling softly at his back.
His fingers flexed inside his gloves.
The curse pulsed faintly in his chest.
He ignored it.
Training is my second primary task, he thought.
Survival is the first.
First Arrow
He inhaled.
Slow.
The cold burned in his lungs, stabbing delicately at the lining.
He planted his feet in the stance he had memorized from the book—left foot slightly forward, right foot angled, balance central and low. He squared his shoulders, letting them relax into alignment.
Left hand lifted the bow.
Right found the string.
An arrow slid from the quiver into his grip with less clumsiness than it should have for a first attempt; the system's earlier adjustments to his muscle memory smoothed an edge that would have otherwise caught.
He nocked the arrow.
Felt the faint bite of the string through the glove.
His arm trembled.
Not from fear.
From unfamiliar tension.
He drew.
The resistance was immediate.
The bow demanded strength he barely had.
Muscles in his shoulders strained, back tightening like a bowstring of its own. The curse stirred, pressing coldly against his ribs, as if displeased with this exertion.
Kel's breath hitched.
Then steadied.
He anchored his hand near his jaw, as the diagrams had shown.
His eyes narrowed, focusing on the nearest target—a straw circle perhaps fifteen meters away.
Threads of wind whispered across his cheek.
He did not think of hitting the center.
Not yet.
Not on the first shot.
He thought only of release without flinch.
Of letting go cleanly.
He exhaled.
At the tail of that breath—
He loosed.
The string snapped forward with a sharp thwip.
The arrow leapt from the bow.
For a heartbeat, he felt the recoil ripple through his chest and arm—
Then the sound came.
Thud.
The arrow struck the target.
Not center.
Outer ring.
Low and right.
Kel's eyes tracked the path it had taken in his mind.
He replayed it.
Wind direction.
Release timing.
Body angle.
Too much drag at the release, he calculated silently. Right shoulder still compensating. Grip not relaxed enough on the bow hand.
A faint flicker brushed the corner of his perception.
[Cold Requiem – Bowmanship] Proficiency Increased
Trajectory Visualization – Slightly Refined
Kel drew another arrow.
Practice
Around him, other archers continued their own training.
A man three places down cursed softly as his shot flew wild. A woman next to him muttered about wind shifts and adjusted her aim slightly. Further up the line, a tall archer in guard leather loosed with practiced ease, his arrows hitting deep, near-center clusters.
Nobody spoke to Kel.
But a few watched out of the corners of their eyes.
He did not acknowledge them.
His world narrowed.
To breath.
String.
Tension.
Release.
He nocked another arrow.
Set his stance again.
Left hand firm, but not clenched.
Right hand hooking string with two fingers, thumb resting lightly.
Breath steady.
He drew.
His shoulder protested.
The curse sent a dull ache through his lungs, as if the air itself resented being pulled in while he strained.
He welcomed it.
Pain sharpened the mind.
He adjusted his anchor point by a hair.
His aim line shifted a fraction.
He exhaled.
Released.
The arrow cut through the cold.
Thud.
Higher this time.
Still right of the center.
Kel's lips pressed into a thin line.
Correction is working. But the tendency is consistent. My right side pulls more than my left pushes.
He drew again.
Shot.
Again.
And again.
Each arrow carried a slightly different path.
Each impact etched another line of data into his mind.
His breathing deepened.
Sweat did not form on his skin—the cold stole it before it could, turning effort into a faint sting in his fingertips and a tightening around his joints.
His arms began to ache more sharply.
The curse, displeased, gnawed in slow circles.
[Bowmanship – Minor Stamina Adaptation]
Endurance for repeated draws slightly increased.
The system's quiet acknowledgement came like a whisper under everything.
Kel did not react outwardly.
He simply drew another arrow.
Watching Eyes
"New face."
The words were spoken somewhere to his left.
Kel did not turn.
He heard the quiet reply.
"Probably some merchant's son trying to feel heroic."
Laughter.
Not cruel.
Dismissive.
"Look at his arms. Bow will eat him before the snow does."
Another shot.
Thud.
Kel's arrow landed just within the second ring now.
The corrections were working.
Slowly.
The initial scatter had tightened into a small cluster to the right of the target's center.
Not good enough.
Not for real battle.
But for a first hour… acceptable.
His fingers burned where the string had bitten through the glove's thin protection.
He welcomed the pain.
It meant he was touching something real.
Another voice joined, this one closer.
Older.
Measuring.
"He's not flinching," the new voice observed quietly. "Even when the string bites. And he's not rushing his shots."
Someone snorted.
"So what? A calm corpse is still a corpse."
Kel heard the shuffle of boots.
The weight of a gaze settled more directly onto his back.
He drew again.
His breath misted out in steady rhythm.
He did not acknowledge them.
He loosed.
This arrow sank into the target's outer inner ring—closer now to where it should be.
Almost center.
Almost.
But "almost" was the kind of distance that killed.
His jaw tightened.
I need more.
Adjusting to Pain
His shoulders trembled slightly now.
He lowered the bow for a moment, letting his arms hang at his sides. The cold seized the chance to settle heavier into strained muscle.
He rolled his shoulders once.
Twice.
Fingers flexing, feeling the tug of skin that was beginning to break under friction.
He thought briefly of Samuel's sword drills.
Of collapse in the training yard.
Of waking with blood in his throat.
This body breaks fast.
But it learns fast too.
He lifted the bow again.
Chose a farther target this time.
Arrowheads glinted in those distant circles, their marks mostly scattered, few meeting center.
His lips curved into the faintest, almost imperceptible smile.
If I only train at safe distance, I will stay safe-level.
He drew.
Each inch of pull was harder now.
Not impossible.
Just… costly.
His back muscles screamed in familiar protest, the curse wrapping cold fingers around his heart.
He ignored both.
His eyes narrowed.
He imagined the arc.
Compensation for distance.
Wind.
Sag.
He exhaled.
Released.
The arrow flew longer.
Slower.
For a heartbeat, it seemed too low.
Too weak.
But then the wind caught, just slightly, matching the mental map he had drawn.
Thud.
It struck.
Outer ring.
Far target.
Somewhere to his left, someone grunted.
"That distance, on a frame that slight?"
Another voice answered, quieter.
"Could be luck. Do it again."
Kel's fingers went back to the quiver.
The ache in his arms now felt like they were wrapped in cold iron bands.
He drew another arrow.
He braced.
His breath hitched—
A sudden, sharp pain stabbed through his chest.
The curse tightened like a vice, a cold spike piercing from beneath his ribs.
His vision dimmed at the edges.
His hand almost faltered.
…No.
He held.
Not by strength.
By refusal.
Slowly, teeth pressed together, he forced the draw to full.
His lungs burned.
His eyes sharpened.
He loosed.
The arrow flew.
Thud.
Slightly wider.
Still on target.
His knees threatened to soften.
He did not let them.
The Line Between Enough and Broken
Another flicker.
[Strain Adaptation – Minor Activation]
Body begins to map safest routes under repeated stress.
He lowered the bow again.
This time, he let his eyes close for just a second.
Snow brushed against his face from the side—fine, like fingers tapping.
Voices blurred.
His heart thudded too loudly in his ears.
Stop now, some part of his body whispered.
Continue, his will answered.
He opened his eyes.
Reassessed.
If I keep drawing at this rate, I'll trigger full curse reaction before nightfall.
If I stop now, I'll have nothing but theory.
He exhaled.
Slow.
Compromise.
Twenty more shots, he decided.
Then I stop. Whether I like it or not.
He picked up an arrow.
Drew.
Released.
Nineteen.
Eighteen.
Seventeen.
Each shot taught him.
Where to ease tension.
Where to grip tighter.
When to exhale at the exact fraction of a second.
When to ignore pain.
When to heed it.
His grouping shifted gradually inward.
His arm tremors grew more pronounced.
Breath shorter.
By the time he reached the final arrow, sweat had gathered at the back of his neck despite the cold, and his curse pulsed steadily like a second heartbeat.
He drew slower this last time.
Not because of exhaustion.
Because of clarity.
He felt every fiber of tension from his wrist through his shoulder into his spine, the bow's resistance a conversation with his body.
He accepted the pain.
Adjusted the angle.
His eyes narrowed, sight slicing through distance.
He exhaled.
Loosed.
The arrow flew.
Cutting through snow.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing blazing.
Just clean.
It struck.
The sound was different—
A heavier thump.
Not the outer straw.
Deeper.
Inner.
Almost center.
Kel's shoulders dropped.
He let out the breath that had been sitting too long in his chest.
The world steadied.
Somewhere behind him, a voice said, low and grudging:
"…Not bad. For someone who holds the bow like it's a new limb."
Kel turned his head slightly.
The speaker was a guard—broad-shouldered, face rough with stubble, hair tied back. His bow was taller than Kel, his own target pocked with clustered hits near the center.
The man studied him with a hard, assessing look.
"You're new to this," the guard said. "But you don't flinch. That's more than half the idiots who come here thinking archery is just pulling and letting go."
Kel met his gaze calmly.
"I'm new," he agreed. "But not to needing distance."
The guard snorted.
Not unkindly.
"Name?"
Kel's reply was smooth.
"Heral."
The man nodded.
"Torvin," he returned. "If you're staying long enough, come tomorrow when the fog is heavier. If you can hit then, you're worth teaching."
Kel inclined his head in polite acknowledgment.
"If we're still here," he said, "I'll come."
Torvin grunted.
Turned away.
Resumed his own practice.
Kel looked back to his targets.
His cluster of arrows—imperfect, scattered, but tightening—sat like a small constellation of iron points against straw.
He memorized them with one long look.
Recorded the pattern.
Where he had failed.
Where he had corrected.
Where he had almost reached.
Then he unstrung the bow, fingers slow, respectful. He gathered his arrows, retrieving what he could, leaving a few shafts that had split too deep in the target.
As he turned to leave the training yard, pain flared once more in his chest.
He pressed his hand briefly against his ribs.
Breath thin.
You will not stop me, he told the curse silently.
You may shorten the road.
But you will not tell me where to walk while it lasts.
Snow continued to fall.
He stepped forward.
Not as a swordsman.
Not as an archer yet.
But as something between—
A cursed heir with a borrowed bow and a growing skill that had begun, quietly, to answer him.