Morning in the forest was cool and gray. Thin clouds drifted low between the trees, clinging to the trunks like smoke. The ground was damp, and the air carried the sharp smell of moss and wet bark. Rowan followed Brennar and Ari down the narrow trail, his harpoon heavy across his shoulders, the rope coiled carefully at his side.
Ari crouched suddenly and pressed her hand to the earth. "Fresh tracks," she whispered. She brushed her fingers across the marks pressed deep into the mud — wide clefts, torn earth where weight had turned. "Boar. A big one."
Brennar's mouth tugged into a grin. He adjusted the sling on his bad shoulder and tapped the haft of his axe against his leg. "Good. I'm starving. Breakfast with tusks."
Rowan tried to copy their calm. He shifted his harpoon in his grip, hoping he looked ready. But inside, his stomach fluttered. He had expected training to be lessons, drills, sparring with sticks. Instead, the wild itself was his teacher.
"Quiet feet," Ari murmured, eyes still fixed on the ground. "Heel to toe. Feel for sticks before you put weight down. And lift the rope so it doesn't catch."
Rowan nodded quickly. He unlooped a few turns of the rope, holding them high in his left hand the way she had shown him near the stream. The line brushed across his palm as he moved, and he forced himself to match her steps.
Ari slipped into the trees like a shadow. She barely disturbed the ferns as she passed. Brennar was heavier, his size making silence impossible, but even he tried to place his boots where Ari pointed. Rowan followed clumsily behind, copying every motion he could see — the careful turn around a root, the slow bend of ferns so they wouldn't snap back and give them away.
The forest changed as they went. At first, it was damp and still. Then the smell shifted, a warmer musk cutting through the cool scent of leaves. Ari's fingers skimmed along a tree trunk where deep scratches marred the bark. "Close," she whispered.
Not far ahead, pale shapes moved between the trunks. A small herd of deer grazed in a clearing where mist thinned and sunlight pooled faintly on the grass. Ears flicked. Heads dipped. Their movements were soft, careful, unaware.
Ari lifted her hand. Stop.
She reached back for an arrow without looking at Rowan or Brennar. The bow bent with one smooth pull. She breathed once, then let go.
The arrow hissed. A doe fell silently, legs folding under her as though the ground had opened. The rest of the herd scattered, flashing white tails as they vanished into the trees.
Rowan froze. His chest tightened with surprise. He had imagined the moment would be louder, fiercer — but it had been as quick as breathing. One shot, and it was done.
Brennar clapped him on the back with his good hand. "Don't stare, boy. Food doesn't wait."
They walked into the clearing. Ari was already at the deer's side, knife in hand. She worked with precise motions, her face calm. Brennar crouched beside her, speaking as he cut. "Use it all. Meat, sinew, hide. Bones for tools. Fat for fire."
Rowan helped where he could, though his hands shook. The smell of blood and grass mixed in the air. Ari wrapped the meat in cloth and hung it from a branch high enough that scavengers would think twice. Then she pointed north. "The boar is still ahead."
The signs grew stronger. Mud churned into a wallow, trees with bark stripped away, the ground torn as though by a plow. The smell was heavier now, rank and sour.
Rowan's breath came shorter. He gripped the harpoon tighter. The rope brushed against his wrist, a constant reminder: don't trip yourself.
Ari stopped at the rise of a small hollow. She touched Rowan's arm, shifting him sideways. "Stay downwind. If it charges, move at an angle. Trees will save you. Don't get pinned."
Brennar gave a rough chuckle. "You won't stop a boar head-on, lad. Think spear, not club. Get in, hit hard, and move out."
Rowan swallowed. His mouth was dry. He could hear it now: wet grunts, the slop of hooves in mud.
Then the animal appeared.
The boar was massive, a slab of muscle under bristled fur. Its tusks curled white and sharp, glistening as it rooted near a fallen log. Its small eyes lifted, mean and watchful.
Ari motioned. Wait.
Rowan tried to still his breathing. He uncoiled the rope carefully across his hand, his stance clumsy but steady.
The boar turned its flank. Ari touched his elbow. Now.
Rowan moved too fast. His arm jerked, and the harpoon shot wide, clattering into a log with a dull crack.
The boar's head whipped up. It saw him.
With a squeal, it charged.
Rowan panicked, yanking the rope hard. The head tore free of the log, snapping back toward him and scraping across his shin. He stumbled, clutching the shaft. His heart slammed against his ribs.
The boar barreled closer, mud spraying from its hooves.
"Don't run!" Brennar shouted, shifting behind a tree. "Let it come to you!"
Rowan's legs wanted to flee, but he forced himself to plant. His hands burned from the rope, sweat slick on his grip. The boar's eyes locked onto him, snorting as it came low.
Rowan's fingers brushed his water pouch. Ari's voice echoed in his head: Keep it full. Keep it close.
He yanked it open and tossed a quick splash in front of him. The water scattered across the air, catching the torchlight. For the briefest moment, it clung to the harpoon's point instead of falling, sliding down the prongs before dripping away.
The boar skidded slightly on the wet ground, its stride broken.
Now.
Rowan thrust, short and straight. The iron head sank into its shoulder, not deep but enough to make the beast scream and wheel.
Brennar stepped in fast, axe swinging. He didn't try to kill with one blow — his wound made that impossible — but he struck hard against the boar's skull. The beast staggered. Brennar hit it again, lower, and the animal collapsed with a harsh grunt.
The forest went still.
Rowan realized his legs were trembling. His palm burned red from the rope. Blood slicked the harpoon point. He felt sick and proud all at once.
Brennar leaned on his axe, grinning. "Better. You kept your feet."
Rowan managed a shaky laugh.
Ari knelt by the carcass, knife already out. "Your strike landed. Next time, aim deeper."
Her voice was flat, but not unkind. Rowan swallowed and nodded.
They dressed the boar quickly, each person working with practiced rhythm. Rowan helped when he could, holding, cutting, learning where to stand. The smell was thick and hot, but it was work, not fear.
By evening, they had found a dry hollow under birch trees. They built a small fire, smoke curling between the trunks. The meat hissed as it cooked. Brennar told a wild story about a boar chasing him up a tree when he was twelve. Ari said nothing for a long moment before muttering, "The tree was probably a bush." Rowan laughed until he coughed.
They ate well, each taking more than one strip. Even Ari allowed herself seconds, though she kept her eyes lowered as she chewed.
When the pan cooled, Rowan took the harpoon aside and practiced. He worked the rope over and over, learning how it slid, how it caught. He threw short, careful strikes into a stump, pulling back quickly so the point didn't whip into him. The red line across his palm made him cautious, but the thud of iron into wood filled him with something close to pride.
"Lower your elbow," Ari said without looking up from where she checked her bowstring. "You lift at the end. That ruins your aim."
Rowan adjusted. The next strike hit truer.
"Better," she said, and for the first time the word felt like a reward.
---
The fire burned low. Brennar stretched out with a groan and was snoring within minutes. Rowan leaned back against a tree, blanket over his shoulders, harpoon across his knees. His eyes began to close.
A sharp crack split the quiet — a twig snapping in the dark.
Rowan's head shot up. "Another boar?" he whispered, hand going to the rope.
Ari's eyes opened slowly. She didn't move at first. Then she rose in one smooth motion, bow in hand. Her voice was low, steady, colder than the night air.
"Not boar," she said. "Something else."