The cabin yard rings with noise that doesn't fit together. Wood groans. Rope snaps tight, then slackens. Jason stands barefoot on packed dirt, bow in hand, sword leaning useless against a post.
"Okay," he exhales.
"Let's do this," he tells himself, lifting the bow. "Nice and easy."
The string bites his fingers. He looses.
The arrow skims wide, clips a barricade, and sends two planks shuddering.
"Of course," he mutters. "Why should I expect perfection?"
Wind slides through the clearing, lifting dust into his eyes. He wipes his face with his wrist and tries again. Another miss. The target sways, mocking.
"What?" he says aloud, shifting his stance. "Relax. Breathe."
He inhales.
Exhales, then puts the bow down.
He picks up the sword. Wraps his fingers around the grip and lifts. His wrist dips at once, shoulder tightening to compensate. The weight drags forward, pulling his balance with it. He cuts through the air in a rushed arc, steel whistles, misses its mark, and the tip slams into the ground with a dull thud.
"Great. Real heroic."
Exhausted, he leans on a barricade.
It collapses under his weight. Wood cracks, pins popping loose.
He gets up, groaning.
Facing the target this time.
The map hovers, parallel to the target, its light steady, patient. Paths pulse faintly.
He exhales again, slightly this time.
His gaze meets the Quiet Smith's.
"Don't look at me like that," Jason says, dragging the sword back to the post. "I'm still learning."
The yard settles around him. The Smith breathes.
He switches back to the bow, jaw tight. Draws. Releases.
The arrow flies true for half a heartbeat, then curves, strikes the glowing map dead center.
Light spasms. Lines scramble. Symbols tear themselves apart and reassemble too fast to follow. The air hums, sharp enough to sting his teeth.
Jason freezes. "Hey. That wasn't,"
The map flickers violently, brightness surging, as if something inside it has just been struck awake.
Ink whispers behind him.
Jason turns. The Ledger Keeper stands near the door, robe layered like bound pages, rectangular eyes fixed on the yard.
"I know," Jason says quickly. "I messed up."
A quill drags across thick paper. Slow. Unforgiving.
"Hey, that was one shot," Jason says.
The quill pauses. Scratches again.
"You're just going to write that down, aren't you," he says, voice tightening.
A mouth forms briefly. Flat. Paper-thin. "Missed angles recorded. Grip tension noted. Impatience escalating."
Jason laughs, brittle. "You sound thrilled."
The cube beside the Keeper shifts from pale gold to a bruised amber. Warmth fades. The feedback presses in, constant, everywhere.
"I'm trying," Jason says, voice lower now. "I've always been good at picking things up fast."
The quill moves. Faster.
"Talent variance insufficient," the Keeper says. "Repetition deficit confirmed."
Jason drags a hand through his hair. Sweat slicks his palms. His mind drifts to the science fair bench, Marcus's voice cutting clean through the room. Typical Beecroft.
"Figures," he mutters.
A faint ache brushes his chest, Clara's hand, once, steadying his when he shook. The memory slips away.
The cube dims again.
Jason turns toward the cabin, then slows. Near the side wall, where the structure casts a long shadow toward the rear, the earth is torn up. Damp soil sags inward under heavy impressions, deep, uneven marks pressed hard as if something has lingered there, shifting its weight before moving on.
He moves closer. Crouches, fingers hovering. "Those aren't ours."
Outside, the forest breathes. Branches shift.
Something big has walked there. And it is close enough to watch him make mistakes.
Metal rings once. Clean. Final.
The Quiet Smith stands where the barricade has fallen, heavy apron bristling with tools. He doesn't look at Jason. He simply lifts a plank, adjusts the brace, and sets it back with brutal precision.
Jason swallows. "You could've done something earlier."
No answer.
The Smith tightens a joint, tests it with his weight. The structure holds.
Jason steps closer. "Like that?"
The Smith shifts his stance half an inch. Demonstrates again. Slower.
"Oh," Jason breathes. "So it's not force. It's alignment."
A deep grunt. Maybe approval.
The bow comes next. The Smith adjusts Jason's elbow with two fingers, firm, impersonal. Heat flares where they touch.
"Thanks," Jason says quietly.
The Smith breathes. Nothing more.
The arrow flies straight, hitting its target this time.
From the treeline, a shape shifts. Half-light clings to it, refusing definition.
Jason feels eyes on his back. His pulse thuds. Around him the world stills, leaves suspended mid-rustle, the Quiet Smith's breath arriving slower than breath should arrive.
But Jason doesn't turn.
Not yet.