The clearing was prepared for combat.
It wasn't a pretty or symbolic space—it was functional. Fallen logs served as cover, moving targets hung from ropes between the trees, and markings on the ground indicated varying distances. Everything there existed for a single purpose: to teach someone how to survive when nothing goes according to plan.
Damon stood in the center of the clearing, bow in hand, breathing controlled.
The arrows had no points. Instead, they ended in hardened leather capsules, wide enough not to pierce, but heavy enough to hurt. A lot.
He had already been hit three times.
Twice in the shoulder.
Once in the ribs.
"You're dead," Aria said calmly, as she nocked another arrow. "Three times."
"I noticed," Damon growled, rolling back and standing behind a log. "You don't need to narrate."
An arrow grazed the spot where his head had been a second before and struck the tree behind him with a dry thump.
