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Year: 267 AC (Late Summer)
Location: Northern Hamlet near the Wolfswood
The brook's icy water numbed Arthur's fingers as he ground the river stone against his notched branch. Six summers old, but his hands moved with the precision of a master fletcher.
Too weak for a Storm Crescent Bow, he thought, but this will kill.
A splash broke his focus. Ella, Old Meg's granddaughter, stood on the far bank, her herb basket tilting precariously.
"Scrap Boy making toys again?" She giggled, mud squelching between her toes as she waded closer.
Arthur tested the sinew string. "It's not a toy."
"Looks like one." Ella plopped down beside him, sending water droplets onto his half-carved arrows. "Tomm says you're cursed. That you made Hobb piss himself just by staring."
Arthur notched a stick to the bowstring. "Hobb pisses himself every time he finishes a jug."
The arrow thudded into a birch trunk ten paces away—off-center but deep. Ella's eyes widened.
"Teach me!"
"No." His voice carried finality. The Phantom Tread and Crouching Tiger Posture weren't for giggling girls with herb-stained fingers.
Ella pouted but didn't argue. As she left, Arthur noted how her gaze lingered on his growing pile of scavenged metal.
Too observant.
Lysa's Shack - Dusk
The deer pelt hit the floorboards with a wet slap. Lysa's knuckles whitened around her spoon.
"Where'd a runt like you get a stag?"
Arthur shrugged. "Found it dead."
"Liar." Her eyes darted to his hands—still flecked with blood he'd missed while washing in the brook. "Meg says the wood's been restless. Says she hears things moving wrong in the dark."
Arthur met her stare without blinking. "Maybe she should drink less."
The wooden spoon cracked against his shoulder, but the fear in Lysa's eyes blunted the sting.
Wolfswood - Moonrise
The second deer died quicker than the first.
Arthur crouched over his kill, skinning knife flashing. Blood steamed in the cool night air, painting his forearms crimson. He ate the liver raw, the metallic tang flooding his mouth with memories of victory feasts after battles long past.
A twig snapped.
Arthur spun, knife raised—to find Ella clutching her herb basket like a shield, her face pale in the moonlight.
For three heartbeats, neither moved.
Then the girl stepped forward and wordlessly handed him a bundle of cobweb-laced yarrow—good for sealing wounds.
Arthur stared at the offering. At the girl who'd tracked him through the Wolfswood without making a sound until she chose to.
Perhaps not useless after all.
He took the herbs and tossed her a strip of venison. "Tell anyone what you saw, and I'll feed you to the next stag."
Ella grinned, her teeth flashing white in the dark. "Promise?"
The wind carried their laughter through the pines—one sharp and cold, the other bright as a new-forged bell.