Taron's legs hurt in a way that made each step feel borrowed. The road from the Stormbearer Mountains back to Springvale had turned into a long, grey smear in his memory—cliffs and broken stone giving way to gentler hills, the cold mountain wind softening into the familiar Mondstadt breeze that carried the scent of grass and water.
By the time the lake came into view, the sun was already sliding behind the distant hills. Springvale's one-story houses caught the last light in their blue roofs, and the big windmill above the village turned lazily, its blades cutting slow arcs through a sky going from gold to purple. The wind on his face felt almost kind after the sharp gusts up north.
The basket, hooked over his right arm, dragged at his shoulder. Mushrooms pressed against each other inside—thick, dark caps from the lower slopes of Stormbearer, pale ones from shaded rocks near trickling water, clusters he'd almost slipped on when the moss underfoot gave way. He'd gone farther than Finch had circled on the map, following fresher patches where no one had bent the stems yet.
"No more boar for a month," Finch had muttered that morning, tracing routes with a calloused finger. "So we lean harder on everything else. Birds. Fish. Mushrooms. Even ten-year-olds with good eyes."
Ten-year-old legs, Taron thought now, adjusting his grip on the handle. Ten-year-old legs that had walked from Springvale to Stormbearer and back because grown hunters had come home with birds and apologies instead of red meat for weeks.
The square by the pond was busier than the road. Crates of plucked fowl and baskets of eggs stood where boar carcasses used to lie. The air smelled of feathers, smoke, and thin mushroom stew from house windows. At the centre of it, under the shadow of the windmill, stood Draff—broad-shouldered, arms folded, talking low with two older hunters.
He looked like he belonged there. Head of the hunters, even at twenty. Scruffy beard, wind-tangled hair, bowstring calluses on his fingers, a tired line at the corner of his mouth that didn't match how young he actually was. Only ten years older than Taron, but those ten years had loaded his shoulders with the weight of feeding an entire village.
"Taron!" Draff's voice carried across the square as soon as he turned and spotted him. "There you are. For a second, I thought the mushrooms decided to keep you."
A few heads turned. Taron forced his feet to keep moving.
"I went all the way to the foot of the mountains," he said when he was close enough, words coming out rough from a dry throat. "The spots near Whispering Woods were bare. I only found enough when I started seeing Stormbearer's cliffs clearly."
One of the older hunters let out a low whistle. "Kid's half your size and walked your old route," he remarked to Draff.
Draff didn't answer right away. He stepped forward, eyes dropping to the basket. The mushrooms inside were still damp from mountain shade, stained with darker soil than the soft earth near Springvale's creek. He recognised them. He'd picked from the same slopes, years back, when he was the one sent to stretch the village's food lines farther out.
"The forest's different up there," he said quietly. "Wind's meaner. Paths steeper. Hilichurls on the cliffs if you look up at the wrong time."
"I stayed near the road," Taron said quickly. "If I turned back, I could see the city and the ocean. I counted my steps when the shadows started getting long." He hesitated. "I made sure I'd be back before the dark."
"You're ten," Draff replied. "Ten-year-olds are supposed to be tripping over fences, not measuring their way home from Stormbearer with their own footsteps."
The words dug up an old memory before Taron could shove it aside. Not Stormbearer's cold rock and sharp wind, but Springvale's pond on a bright morning, the water still and reflective, ducks bobbing lazily near the centre.
He remembered the bow being too big in his hands, the string biting into his fingers, Finch's calm voice behind him.
"Back straight. Left hand out. Don't strangle it. It's a bow, not a hilichurl."
He'd tried to pull. The string had slipped sideways and snapped back, cracking against his wrist. The arrow had scraped past the wood, shuddered, and driven itself into the dirt barely a step in front of his own boots. One of the hunters watching had laughed, saying something about the "storm child" not being able to hit a log even if it begged. His face still warmed just thinking about it.
The ducks hadn't moved. Not even when he'd finally managed to send an arrow flopping into the water a handspan from the shore. They'd just floated there, perfectly safe, as if they knew he'd never reach them from where he stood. In the end, Finch had taken the bow away and handed him a stick instead.
"Some folks fight from far away," Finch had said, guiding his stance by the pond. "Some don't. Some draw lines up close. You're not a bow boy. That's all."
The memory loosened its grip as Draff spoke again, dragging Taron back to the present.
"You didn't have to prove anything with distance," Draff said. He didn't know exactly where Taron's mind had gone, but he could guess the shape of it; the boy always went a little stiff when hunters joked about bows. "No one here's expecting you to stand at fifty paces and save us all."
"I can't even hit a log at five," Taron muttered before he could stop himself.
Draff blinked, then let out a short, rough laugh. "Logs are tricky," he said. "They sit there judging you. Targets are worse than boars."
It was a small kindness, pretending it was the log's fault. But then his tone shifted, more serious beneath the humour.
"Look," he went on, dropping his voice. "We've got more archers than we know what to do with. Hunters who grew up with bows in their hands. But today, none of them walked to Stormbearer and back carrying this much food." He tapped the side of the basket lightly. "You did."
The older flash of humiliation by the pond—string burns, laughter, ducks ignoring him—sat beside the ache in his legs now in a strange balance. He hadn't hit anything from afar, not then, not now. But he had closed a different kind of distance today. Not between arrow and target, but between a hungry village and a mountainside full of mushrooms.
Draff seemed to read some of that in his face. He reached into a nearby crate and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. The smell of preserved meat—what little was left from before the boars vanished—leaked through.
"This was my emergency 'morale is worse than dinner' stash," Draff said, offering it. "I was saving it for when people started fighting over who got the last egg. I think 'ten-year-old went to Stormbearer on foot' qualifies instead."
Taron shook his head on instinct. "You should keep—"
"I can still walk farther tomorrow," Draff cut in. "You shouldn't have to. Give half to Finch. Eat the other half when he's not looking. Consider it payment for proving that not being able to shoot ducks from the pond doesn't make you useless to hunters."
The words landed carefully, deliberately close to that old sore spot. This time, instead of shrinking, Taron felt something unwind in his chest.
He took the bundle, fingers brushing the rough cloth. "Okay," he said quietly.
Draff ruffled his hair with a hand that smelled of feathers and steel. "You're the kid by the lake who can't hold a bow straight," he said. "And at the same time, you're the one who just walked Springvale to Stormbearer and back, so our pots don't run empty. People can laugh about the first part if they want. I'll make sure they remember the second."
He squeezed Taron's shoulder once. "Now go. Before Finch decides to march up here and drag you home himself for making him worry."
Taron turned toward the path up the hill, basket against one hip, precious bundle against his chest. As he walked, he could still see, in his mind's eye, the unmoving ducks on Springvale's pond and the crooked arrow in the dirt at his feet.
The path up to Finch's house felt steeper than usual. By the time Taron reached the low fence, his arms were trembling from holding the basket and Draff's bundle at once. Light spilt out of the small windows, warm and steady, carrying with it the faint smell of mushroom broth and old wood.
Finch was at the door before Taron could reach for the latch.
"There you are," Finch said, voice sharp with worry that pretended to be annoyance. His gaze swept Taron head to toe in one practised motion—checking for limps, tears, blood—before dropping to the basket. "You're late."
"I know," Taron said. His throat tightened at the sight of Finch's lined face; the corners of his eyes creased from squinting at both the lake and maps. "I had to go farther. Whispering Woods was empty. I… I reached the bottom of Stormbearer."
Finch's eyebrows jumped, the lines in his forehead deepening. "Stormbearer." He said the word like an old superstition. "You're ten, boy, not a Favonius scout."
"I stayed on the paths," Taron said quickly. "If I turned around, I could see the city and the statue by the lake. I counted my steps so I'd be back before dark. And there were mushrooms there, Finch. Big ones. No one else had picked them."
He lifted the basket just enough that Finch could see inside. Mountain mushrooms, still slightly cool to the touch, filled it nearly to the brim.
Finch's shoulders dropped on a slow exhale. "Reckless," he murmured. "Stubborn. Just like…" He cut himself off and shook his head, a small, helpless smile ghosting across his mouth. "Get in here before my heart gives up trying to keep up with you."
Inside, the house was cramped but familiar: shelves of old fishing gear, a chipped kettle, a corner dedicated to maps and half-finished notes about the spring, the fairy, and winds that never quite blew the same way twice. Finch took the basket from Taron with a grunt, setting it on the table.
"These will stretch far," he said, running his fingers through the caps. "Enough that no one has to pretend half a bowl is enough."
Taron remembered the extra weight in his other hand. He held out the small, cloth-wrapped bundle awkwardly. "Draff gave this," he said. "Said it was from before the boars stopped coming. For you. And… for me."
Finch's eyes narrowed, not in anger at Taron, but at the idea of Draff giving away precious meat in a month like this. Then, unexpectedly, they softened.
"Of course he did," Finch said. "The boy's too soft-hearted to be head of hunters and too proud to admit it." He untied the cloth just enough to peek inside, then closed it again carefully, as if it were something fragile. "We'll slice it thin. Make it last. You'll have a proper taste tonight so your legs remember why they walked that far."
Taron sank onto the nearest stool, the wood creaking under him. Now that he'd stopped moving, his muscles started sending delayed complaints. Finch noticed.
"Feet up," the old man ordered, nudging a small crate closer. "You show up here with blisters the size of pigeons, and I'll tan Draff's hide."
"It wasn't his fault," Taron protested. "He told me I shouldn't have had to go that far."
Finch paused at that. "Did he now?"
"Yeah," Taron said. "He said hunters like him can still walk to Dadaupa tomorrow. I shouldn't have to."
A strange look passed over Finch's face—something between pride and a kind of tired relief. "Then he's learning," Finch said. "Took him long enough."
He rinsed a handful of mushrooms in a basin, the sound of water soft in the small space. "You remember the bow?" Finch asked suddenly, without looking up.
Taron grimaced. "I try not to."
"I remember," Finch went on gently. "I remember string marks on your wrist and ducks that never even blinked. I remember your face when that arrow went into the dirt."
Taron stared at his hands. "I was useless."
Finch snorted. "You were trying to be something you're not. That's not the same." He glanced over his shoulder. "Today you weren't an archer. You were a boy who walked to Stormbearer and back with enough food on his arm to thicken every pot in this village. Don't confuse 'not good with a bow' with 'no good at all.'"
The words settled over Taron like a blanket he hadn't realised he needed. The image of the pond, the laughing hunters, and the unmoving ducks felt a little smaller when set next to the memory of cold mountain air in his lungs and Draff's hand saying people would remember this walk.
"Eat," Finch said a little while later, setting down a bowl of mushroom stew sweetened with a few thin slices from Draff's bundle. The scent of real fat and salt rose with the steam. "Then go find that friend of yours—Jotun. If you don't tell him about Stormbearer, he'll make up something twice as ridiculous and claim that's what happened."
The night over Springvale had turned deep and soft by the time Taron stepped out of Finch's house. Lanterns glowed in doorways, and the windmill above the village turned in slow, creaking arcs, its shadow sweeping over the dirt paths like a lazy hand. Down by the pond, the reflection of the blades cut the starlight into pieces.
Taron's legs still ached dully from the walk to Stormbearer and back, but the stew in his stomach and Finch's words in his ears steadied him. His feet carried him, almost on their own, toward the water.
Jotun saw him first.
"Taron!" Jotun hopped down from the low stone wall by the pond, arms flailing for balance before he caught himself and pretended it had all been intentional. "You didn't get eaten by wolves or fall off a cliff. I owe myself an apology."
"You also owe half the village a correction," Taron said. "I heard some of the things you 'guessed' I was doing."
Jotun grinned, unrepentant. "Hey, I was only filling in the silence. 'He walked to the bottom of Stormbearer and picked mushrooms' doesn't sound as impressive unless I add dramatic pauses."
A soft line of music drifted across the square. Myweiss sat on an overturned crate near the base of the windmill, lyre resting on her knees, fingers moving carefully over the strings as she chased a melody. She had that half-distant look, eyes flicking between the sky, the water, and something only she could see.
She looked up as the boys approached. "So," she said, "did the stars look different from the mountain road?"
"Colder," Taron replied. "Same stars. Sharper wind."
"Good," Myweiss murmured, tucking that away as she plucked a few airy, wind-like notes. "Helps with the verse about you being stubborn."
"Why is everyone writing verses about me?" Taron muttered.
"Because 'the month the boars vanished' wants a main character," Myweiss said simply. "Might as well be the one who walked the farthest."
Before Taron could argue, a familiar, earnest voice cut in.
"You're late," Hopkins said, striding toward them from the spring's edge. His sleeves were pushed up, and his hands were still damp, as if he'd been cupping water in them moments before. A small wooden cup and a cloth-wrapped bundle hung at his belt. Even at fourteen or so, he carried himself like someone practising at being a guardian of secrets.
"Late for what?" Jotun asked. "Curfew? A sermon?"
"Late for the spring," Hopkins replied, ignoring him. His gaze settled on Taron, sharp and worried. "Draff said you went all the way to Stormbearer. The water's been restless since noon."
"Water doesn't get restless," Jotun whispered aside.
"Water listens," Hopkins shot back without looking. "You should try it sometime."
Taron shifted under his stare. "I'm fine," he said. "Tired. But fine."
Hopkins stepped closer, as if checking for cracks. "You walked to the foot of the mountains and back at ten," he said quietly. "The spring noticed that. So did half the adults. I—" He hesitated. "I asked it to watch you."
"You… prayed?" Taron said.
"Asked," Hopkins corrected quickly. "Prayed is for priests and stone churches. We have a windmill and a fairy who may or may not still listen. I just told the water, 'He's yours. Don't let him fall.'"
Myweiss's fingers slowed, her music thinning to almost nothing.
Before the silence could get too heavy, another voice joined them, softer but firm.
"There you are," Marla said, coming down the path. She was young, maybe thirteen, with her hair pulled back in a quick tie and a basket hanging from her arm. A few clean plates clinked faintly inside—she'd clearly just finished helping clear up after supper.
"I went to take dishes back, and everyone was talking about you," she told Taron, without preamble. "Stormbearer this, 'Finch's boy' that. The kids at the well think you climbed the mountain and shouted at the sky."
"I did not shout at the sky," Taron said, scandalised. "I barely wanted to breathe loud."
Marla shrugged. "They're kids. They like loud." She eyed him more closely. "You don't look like you climbed a mountain. You look like you walked too far for anyone's comfort and then tried to be polite about it."
"That's basically what he did," Jotun said. "Plus mushrooms."
Marla's gaze flicked to his boots, then to his hands, then to the faint slump of his shoulders. "Well, you made Brook cry," she said.
Taron blinked. "What?"
"Happy-cry," Marla clarified. "She thought she'd have to water down tonight's stew again. Then Finch sent over mushrooms from your basket, and a slice of meat he 'found somewhere,' and suddenly her pot looked like real food, not flavoured water. She said 'bless that boy from the lake' at least three times."
Myweiss made an approving noise. "That's another line," she murmured. "'Bless that boy from the lake' has a good rhythm."
Hopkins touched the bundle at his belt. "I brought something," he said, a little abruptly, as if afraid someone else might speak first and chase the courage away. He untied it, revealing the small wooden cup and a folded scrap of cloth damp with clear water. "It's from the spring. I asked the fairy to… pay attention. To your steps. To the aches they'd leave."
Jotun squinted. "Is this the part where you start calling it 'holy water'?"
"Not yet," Hopkins said, and for once, there was no showman in his voice at all. "This is just water I asked nicely. If it helps, it helps. If it doesn't, then at least someone said 'thank you' out loud for you coming back."
He dipped the cloth in the cup, then held it out. "Hands first. Then a sip. Not because it's magic. Because it's a promise, there'll be more days you come back."
Marla watched, arms folded lightly over her basket. "If he falls over, I'm telling Finch it was your idea," she said, but the words were soft.
Taron took the cloth. The water was cool against his skin as he wiped the dirt from his fingers and palms. When Hopkins poured a little into the cup and passed it to him, he drank. It tasted like it always did—fresh, clean, with a faint mineral tang—but this time, with three friends and the windmill shadow overhead, it felt like more than just something to swallow.
"How do you feel?" Hopkins asked.
"Tired," Taron admitted. "But… less like I was the only one on the road."
"Good," Hopkins said, letting out a breath. "Then the spring listened a little."
Marla shifted her basket to the other arm. "You know what I like about this?" she said. "Tomorrow, when I go to the well, everyone will be telling their version of what you did. Jotun will have added wolves. Myweiss will add metaphors. Hopkins will say the spring knew all along."
"And you?" Jotun asked.
Marla shrugged. "I'll say: 'He walked too far because the pots were too empty.' That's enough."
It was simple, and it was true, and somehow hearing it that way made Taron's chest ache in a different, almost bearable way.
Jotun bumped his shoulder lightly. "See? You've got your own chorus," he said. "A bard, a spring-listener, and a girl who will throw a plate at anyone who tries to downplay it."
Marla lifted her chin. "If someone says you're 'just the kid who can't use a bow,' I will absolutely throw a plate," she said matter-of-factly. "Plates are cheaper than pride."
Myweiss laughed, letting her fingers find a brighter melody. "Noted. I'll make sure the song includes a warning about airborne crockery."
The village had quieted by the time Taron slipped away.
Lanterns burned low in windows, and the voices around the pond had thinned to the occasional laugh drifting from Draff's direction. The windmill turned slowly above Springvale, each creak of its beams loud in the cooler air. Out here, away from Finch's house and the square, the night felt bigger.
He walked until the houses sat behind him in a loose cluster of light, stopping where grass gave way to the packed earth near the edge of the spring. The water was dark now, reflecting only the broken shape of the windmill and a scattering of stars. Crickets whispered in the long grass.
In his hands, he still carried the old branch Finch had once pressed on him by this same pond—the "try this instead" stick from the day the ducks hadn't even bothered to move for his arrows. It was worn smoother now where his palms had found the same spots over and over.
Taron planted his feet and just stood for a moment, feeling the day in his bones. The road to Stormbearer was still in his muscles, an echo of climbing and descending and counting steps so the dark wouldn't catch him.
"You're not a bow boy," Finch had said back then, after the last arrow hit dirt. "Some folks draw lines up close."
Fine. Then he would learn to draw a line.
He raised the stick in front of him with both hands, mimicking what he'd seen from a distance: Knights of Favonius training in Mondstadt's plaza on the rare days he'd been close enough to watch, hunters resetting their grips on long knives, even Jotun waving a broom in a way that accidentally made sense.
Right foot back. Left foot forward. Not too narrow, or he'd trip. He tried a slow swing. The branch cut through the air with a light hiss, then pulled him off balance when his weight stayed too far forward.
He reset his stance.
Again.
He imagined a big X in front of him as he'd once seen a travelling instructor show her students, down from shoulder to opposite hip, then the other way, forehand and backhand, tracing invisible lines through the air.
"Forehand," he muttered to himself, bringing the stick down from his right to left in a diagonal slice. The tip dipped too low, nearly dragging. "Backhand." He reversed it, left to right, feeling the twist through his waist, the pull in his shoulders.
The first few attempts were always clumsy, more like chopping at overgrown weeds. His wrists bent wrong, his elbows flared out. The stick wobbled at the end of each swing, as if reminding him it was just wood, not steel.
He kept going.
Forehand, backhand.
He started paying attention to his feet. Every time he struck, he tried to let his front knee bend a little, back heel light, weight ready to move. When he imagined someone too close—an empty shape, not a real face—it helped. The stick stopped feeling like a tool and more like an answer.
Forehand, step. Backhand, recover.
The night wrapped around him. The only sounds were the soft thud of his soles on the ground, the rush of the stick through the air, and the distant murmur of the spring. Somewhere behind him, a lantern guttered and went out.
He reversed his grip, tried a straight thrust like he'd seen once when a passing knight demonstrated for the village kids: point forward, hands close, step in, back straight. The first time, his shoulders hunched, and the branch dipped off-line. He pulled back, forced his spine to lengthen, tried again.
Step. Thrust. Pull back. Reset.
Each repetition smoothed one tiny flaw. His right hand stopped over-gripping; his left began to guide more than strangle. The branch's weight settled into his palms differently when he stopped fighting it and let his whole body move with each strike instead of just his arms.
"Again," he told himself, under his breath, echoing Finch's voice without meaning to.
He threaded the thrust into the X he'd been drawing: forehand, backhand, step, thrust. Back. Forehand, backhand, step, thrust. It became a rhythm—the same way walking to Stormbearer had become counting, the same way picking mushrooms had become a pattern of kneel, twist, pull, stand.
He thought of the archery line, of the string slapping his wrist, of hunters laughing as the arrow quivered in the dirt at his feet. The anger that flared up now was old but cleaner, less tangled with shame. He poured it into the next set of swings, not to hurt anything, just to drive the branch through the air with purpose.
Forehand. Backhand. Thrust.
The stick hummed with each cut, a rough, simple sound. He imagined hitting—not ducks or distant targets, but the space in front of him that said "no further" to anything trying to cross. The line Finch had talked about. The line Jotun had joked he'd stand on while others missed from afar.
Sweat prickled at his neck despite the cool air. His breath came in short bursts. The ache in his legs changed, turning from Stormbearer's fatigue into something new, something earned tonight.
He tried one more variation he'd seen once: a small, tight guard near his shoulder, then a quick horizontal cut, like drawing an invisible line across someone's chest. The first time, he almost smacked his own ear. He winced, corrected his angle, tried again, slower.
Guard. Cut. Recover.
The wind picked up briefly, ruffling the surface of the spring. Ripples distorted the windmill's reflection, making its blades seem to waver and bend.
He didn't notice how long he'd been at it until his hands started to tremble on the branch. His fingers stung where the bark had rubbed them; tomorrow, there would be new calluses forming over the fading ghost of bowstring marks.
He lowered the stick at last, chest rising and falling, and listened.
Springvale was almost entirely asleep. The square was dark save for a single lantern by Draff's stall. The windmill creaked. The spring murmured against its banks.
Taron adjusted his grip one last time, feeling where his palms wanted to rest now, the way his wrists knew when to turn. It wasn't much. It wasn't a knight's training in Mondstadt or a proper sword in his hand.
But it was his.
He set his feet, closed his eyes, and ran through the pattern once more in his mind—forehand, backhand, thrust, guard, cut—until the movements felt less like something borrowed and more like something growing from the same stubborn place that had carried him up to Stormbearer and back.
When he finally headed home, the stick rested across his shoulders, his hands hooked loosely over it. His steps were slow but steady, and the line he wanted to draw felt just a little clearer under his skin.