Trin carried the bow out into the small courtyard behind the guest house in the late morning, when the sun had warmed the stone but the heat hadn't begun to press.
The space was enclosed on three sides by walls and on the fourth by the back of the house. A few crates, a stack of firewood, and a battered training dummy shared the area. It was quiet—most of the castle staff were busy elsewhere, and no patrol had reason to linger here.
He dragged an old target frame—straw packed into a rough canvas circle—into place against the far wall and propped it so it wouldn't topple.
Then he called, "Lysa."
Her head appeared in the doorway a heartbeat later. "If this is about stew opinions, I refuse to apologize," she said. Then she saw what he held. "Oh. That's different."
He lifted the bow slightly. "For you," he said.
She stepped fully into the courtyard, eyes fixed on the weapon. "Is that the…?"
"Yes," he said. "Finished."
She crossed the space in a few quick strides, hands reaching out and then stopping just short. "May I?"
"Please," Trin said.
She took it.
Her fingers settled instantly into the grip the way he had envisioned—thumb resting in a shallow groove, other fingers wrapping around the smoothed wood. The bow seemed to adjust to her touch, the subtle resonance he'd built into it answering her hold.
Lysa's eyes widened.
"It feels…" she began, groping for words. "Balanced. Like it wants to be where it is in my hand. Like my arm just got…smarter."
"Encouraging," Trin said.
She turned it, testing the weight, then glanced at the target. "String?"
He handed her a quiver.
She nocked an arrow with practiced ease, lifted the bow, and drew.
The movement was fluid, almost instinctive. Her shoulders rolled back, the new string gliding under her fingers. The bow bent smoothly, without a hint of creak or uneven stress.
"It's…easier," she said, surprised. "Not weaker. Just…less of a fight."
"Then let it work with you," Trin said. "Not against."
She focused on the target, exhaled, and released.
The arrow flew.
It cut a clean arc through the air and struck near the center of the straw with a satisfying thud, burying itself deeper than her old bow would have at that distance.
Lysa blinked. "All right," she said. "That's…nice."
She shot again.
Another arrow, another solid, centered hit. Her movements grew more relaxed as she adjusted to the new feel. The bow seemed to respond to her intent, subtle corrections translating into the arrow's path with less wasted motion.
"It's like," she said slowly, eyes still on the target, "my shots are listening to me instead of the wind. Less 'please hit' and more 'you're going there.'"
"Arrows with intention," Trin said.
"Exactly," she said. "I always knew what I wanted. The world just didn't always care. This—" she flexed her fingers on the string "—makes it care a little more."
She tested it at different draws, different distances—short, quick shots, then longer ones. Each time, the arrows flew with a consistency that made her grin widen.
Finally, curiosity pushed her.
"How far can I pull this before it complains?" she asked.
"Within reason?" Trin said. "Try."
She stepped farther back, to the courtyard's opposite side. The target was now near the far wall, a good stretch away for a tight space. She nocked another arrow, set her feet, and drew.
This time, she went to the very edge of what her muscles could manage.
The bow bent in a smooth, clean curve, the new string taut but not protesting. Her arms trembled slightly with the effort, but the weapon itself felt solid, eager.
She held the draw for a brief moment, sighting carefully, then released.
The arrow became a streak.
It punched through the target with a tearing sound, the straw barely slowing it, and slammed into the stone wall behind with a sharp, ringing crack. The shaft quivered, embedded halfway into the mortar.
Lysa's jaw dropped.
Trin allowed himself a small smile.
"I liked that," she breathed.
She walked forward, hand brushing over the torn canvas, then the jutting arrow. "I've hit hard before, but…that was different. The bow did half the work."
She turned back to him, eyes bright. "What is this string made of? It feels…strong. But it didn't bite my fingers like a new one sometimes does."
"A blend," Trin said lightly. "Good principles and stubbornness."
She narrowed her eyes. "That's not an answer."
"Trade secret," he replied.
She snorted. "You and your mysteries. Fine. Whatever it is, it works."
She hugged the bow briefly—not quite an embrace, but close enough—then slung it over her shoulder with almost possessive satisfaction. "If anything ever happens to this," she said, "I'm dragging you back from the dead to fix it."
"I'll endeavor not to die," Trin said.
The door to the house opened.
Garran stepped into the courtyard, looking as if someone had rung him like a bell all morning. His shoulders sagged a fraction more than usual, and the lines around his eyes were deeper.
"You look like they threw maps at you," Lysa said.
"They threw words," Garran replied. "Maps were mercifully limited."
He dropped down onto one of the crates with a sigh.
"How bad?" Naera asked from the doorway, staff in hand. She'd appeared quietly, drawn by the sound of the arrow striking stone.
"Depends who you ask," Garran said. "The crown's side is…nervous. They've decided to increase patrols near the dragon's region—more riders, more eyes on the roads, a few outposts reinforced."
"And?" Trin prompted.
"And," Garran continued, "they've agreed—at least for now—not to crest the ridge or send anyone within sight of the basin. Orders are clear: no one gets close enough to look Therion in the eye unless something changes drastically."
Lysa exhaled. "So they're going to hover at the edge and pretend that will make the dragon feel better."
"Hover carefully," Garran said. "The logic is that if we don't poke his nose, he has less reason to see us as an immediate threat. They want him to know we're not oblivious, but also not arrogantly marching up to tap his claws."
Naera nodded slowly. "It's…not the worst approach," she said. "Watch. Prepare. Don't provoke."
"It took hours of arguing to get there," Garran said. "But for once, the cautious voices were louder than the reckless ones."
Trin considered that. "Therion will notice," he said. "He'll see the increased movement. If they keep their distance, he may take it as a sign that you're…learning."
"Let's hope so," Garran said. "I'd rather not test what happens if he thinks we're ignoring him or challenging him."
Before anyone could reply, a knock sounded at the front door, followed by a muffled call of "Messenger."
Naera went to answer.
A short exchange of low voices followed, then she returned with a folded piece of parchment in hand, sealed with the Arcanum's sigil.
She broke the seal, eyes scanning the contents quickly.
"Well?" Lysa asked.
"I'm requested at the Arcanum in the morning," Naera said. "Second bell. 'Further consultation on arcane impressions and dragon‑related phenomena.'"
Lysa made a face. "They want to poke your brain."
"They want more detail than they could extract with half the council listening," Naera replied. "Which is…expected."
"You going alone?" Garran asked.
"That's what it says," she answered, then looked at Trin. "I'll be careful."
"I know," he said.
The day slid gently into evening.
They ate together at the long table again—roasted poultry, root vegetables, a thick sauce rich enough to remind them they were guests of the capital, not soldiers on the road. Conversation stayed light; no one had the energy for heavier topics.
Lysa boasted, in detail, about her new bow's performance until even Garran smiled. Naera listened, thumb absently tracing the carved lines on her staff, mind already half on the questions she would face the next morning. Trin added a dry comment here and there, satisfied to watch the three of them talk about arrows and stew instead of ancient dragons and councils.
When the plates were cleared and the lamps burned low, fatigue settled in.
"I'm for bed," Garran said, pushing back his chair. "If they're going to wake me early to argue about patrol routes again, I'd like a few hours where no one says 'logistics.'"
"I need sleep if I'm going to deal with Archmagus Relian and his questions," Naera said. "He likes to circle."
"I need dreams of arrows flying exactly where I tell them," Lysa added, patting her bow as if it were a sleeping cat.
Trin rose with them.
They parted in the hallway, each retreating to their small room.
The guest house grew quiet, the sounds of the city outside softening as the night deepened. Tomorrow would bring more questions for Naera, more decisions for Garran, and, inevitably, more ripples from the revelation of a dragon in human form.
For now, they slept—with a new bow leaning within arm's reach, a staff tuned to unseen paths resting beside a bed, and a tired creator lying awake a little longer, listening to the distant heartbeat of a city that had no idea how delicately its future balanced.