A lone deer stood in the middle of the forest, lowering its narrow head to the glassy surface of the lake. Each careful sip sent visible relief through its trembling body, as though it had only just escaped the grip of a merciless drought. The water rippled outward in soft circles, disturbing the perfect reflection of the sky.
But the deer was alone.
No others grazed nearby. No gentle rustle of hooves in the undergrowth. No watchful eyes to warn of danger.
Only silence.
When the deer finally lifted its head, droplets clinging to its muzzle, a faint sound came from the left — leaves brushing together in a bush. Its ears twitched. Muscles tightened beneath its thin hide. It turned sharply, ready to bolt at the first sign of threat.
All its attention fixed to the left.
It forgot its greatest weakness.
Its back.
PACK!
The arrow tore through the air and pierced its neck with brutal precision. For a moment, the deer stood frozen, as if confused by what had happened. Then the strength drained from its legs. Blood darkened its fur, seeping into the earth below.
Its breath came shallow and uneven. The forest, once still, now felt distant — fading. If it had been capable of regret, perhaps it would have mourned its solitude. Perhaps it would have wished for the warning it never received.
It took one final, trembling breath before the cold hands of death claimed it.
As one life faded, another was quietly stepping forward into its own.
A young boy stood only a few dozen meters away, hands shaking from the shot. Beside him stood a broad-shouldered man holding his own bow with the steady calm of experience.
The boy's name was Michael, though most called him Mike. He came from a small, poor village nearby called Ediera, a place of wooden huts, smoke-stained roofs, and hard lives.
The man beside him was Tork, one of the village's hunters. He had once been a close friend of Mike's father — or more accurately, he had been. Mike's father had died a year ago, when Mike was only eleven.
This was Mike's first hunt.
In Ediera, childhood was brief. Between the ages of twelve and sixteen, every boy and girl was expected to learn a trade. By sixteen, they would leave the hands of their masters and begin earning for themselves. Survival did not allow for hesitation.
Tork had taken Mike as his apprentice, just as Mike's father had once taken Tork under his wing many years before. In that small way, Mike felt connected to his father again — as if each lesson carried an echo of him.
But today, Mike had not learned how to shoot.
He had learned how to walk.
At dawn, Tork had told him, his deep voice low and serious:
"The reason we can hunt in this forest is not because we are the strongest. Nor because we are the fastest. And certainly not because we are the most numerous."
He paused, as though speaking so much at once annoyed him.
"It is because we know when to hunt. And what to hunt. There are beasts in these woods creatures more silent than shadows, larger than the chief's house, some that can breathe fire itself. We are alive because we move when the deadly sleep. We go where they are not interested. We survive because we choose carefully."
Mike had memorized every word. But while he listened obediently, part of him burned with curiosity. He wanted to see those beasts. To understand how they differed from ordinary animals. To face something greater.
Tork continued:
"Before I teach you to hold a bow properly, I will teach you how to survive. Survival comes first."
So they practiced moving through the forest stepping where branches would not snap, keeping low, reading wind and scent, listening more than speaking. They did this until they found the deer.
When it was over, Tork walked to the fallen animal and lifted it onto his shoulders as though it weighed nothing.
In truth, it weighed nearly one hundred and ten kilograms.
The journey back to the village was long. By the time the sun dipped low and painted the sky in orange and violet, Mike's legs felt like stone. Every step burned. Sweat dried stiff against his skin.
When they reached Ediera, smoke curled lazily from chimneys and villagers prepared their evening meals. Tork dismissed him with a short nod.
"Go home. That is enough for your first day."
Mike barely had the strength to reply.
He turned the final corner toward his house a small wooden structure leaning slightly to one side when laughter cut through the evening air.
A group of boys stood near the well.
Before Mike could react, a rock struck the ground near his feet. Another followed. Then another.
They had never needed a reason to bully him. His silence was enough. His distance made him different. And different was reason enough.
A larger stone flew through the air and struck his elbow.
Pain exploded through his arm. Blood began to trickle down toward his wrist.
The boys laughed.
Mike clenched his teeth and ran.
He knew better than to fight. He was not weak but there were more of them, and they had stones. And Mike was no prodigy born with unnatural strength. He was just a boy.
A tired, bleeding boy.
And tomorrow, he would return to the forest