Just as my father had predicted, less than a week had passed since the start of my treatment when the first rumors began to spread—bandits had been spotted again in our territories. The shadows of the forest were stirring once more.
The next morning, I mounted my warhorse and left the city by the northern trail, with my bow strapped to my back and two quivers secured to each side of the saddle. The guards at the gate watched me with a kind of bewildered respect. They weren't used to seeing teenagers leaving armed to the teeth.
I saw the way their eyes fixed on my armor—jet black, light, made of cold metal and red leather. It was hunting armor, yes, but the kind veterans wear when they need to disappear into the woods and return with the enemy's head hanging from their belt.
"Isn't that Rillen's son?" one of them muttered, trying not to draw attention, but unable to hide the nervousness in his voice.
"Yes, it is... look at the armor. Red and black. Hunters' standard. But that finish? That's field weaponry" The second spoke with half-closed eyes, analyzing every detail of what I was wearing. "And the bow... dark tempered iron. That's not decoration. That's Elite Archer stuff"
The first swallowed hard, speaking softly, as if he were facing something too dangerous.
"That kind of bow... only Commanders can pull it"
"Wait a minute" the other replied, frowning. "Are you saying this brat is a Commander? He's what... thirteen years old? For the love of the gods..."
A brief silence fell between them. Not out of astonishment—but out of dread.
"If that's true..." the first one muttered, his voice now almost inaudible, "then House Udrik has just declared, albeit indirectly, the murder of a count's heir. This... this is going to be a huge disaster"
They enjoyed it, of course. For the soldiers at the gates, disputes between nobles were the only form of entertainment. They bet among themselves, spreading rumors like wildfire. Merchants and bards had no chance against the sharp tongue of a bored inspection guard.
I ignored it. I didn't look back.
That same afternoon, I found tracks near the family's old silver mine—the one we had discovered by accident years ago, when we were still hunting for survival. The footprints were poorly disguised. They didn't know anyone was following them.
I carefully dismounted and tied my horse to a tree. I touched the hilt of the dagger strapped to my waist, making sure it was still there, then removed the bow from my back and slung the quiver over my shoulders. Every step I took was calculated. The terrain was familiar to me. I had grown up running through these forests. Now they obeyed me.
I followed the tracks like a predator. The sun began to decline, tinging the sky with shades of copper and red. I blended into the shadows. My trained eyes watched every movement, every fold in the earth, every leaf out of place.
And then, at dusk, I heard them.
Voices. Muffled conversation.
I stopped walking. I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath.
My hearing... it was different. Sharper. I could make out words among the whispers, even from a distance. The forest was giving me what they wanted to hide.
(My hearing has improved...) I thought, focusing on the most distant sound. It was as if the noises vibrated in layers around me, each waiting to be noticed.
"...We need to leave" The male voice was deep, drawn out, with a weight that indicated caution and fear. "If it really is one of them... we won't be able to escape unscathed"
"You're exaggerating" replied a woman, her voice firm but tired. "It's just a child... The mine is worth the risk. We can handle it, as we always have"
The voices came from the east. They were muffled by the damp forest mist, but clear enough for me to understand. I crouched behind a dew-covered bush, holding my breath. The two were moving away, and soon the sound of their words was lost among the crackling of wet leaves and the murmur of the wind in the high branches.
These were no ordinary looters. Their footsteps left almost no trace, and they moved like experienced scouts. There was something disciplined about their movements, something... trained.
Military?
I had been trying to track them for hours. It was no longer fear that drove me. Since I broke into the Rolsvince mansion, I had discovered something new in myself. My body was faster, more precise. And with the ring pulsing on my finger, I felt my perception grow every day. With the bow in my hands, I had become a predator—not an ordinary hunter, but a real danger even to combat masters.
But I was still missing one thing: experience.
I remained crouched for a few more seconds, reflecting. The mist seemed to dance between the tree trunks, and the smell of wet earth dominated the air. Then I caught a subtle but distinct aroma... roasted meat. Fresh. Coming from the opposite direction of the voices. I straightened up, alert.
The light rain had made the trail visible—fresh footprints in the mud. I began to follow them in absolute silence, each step calculated. The trees here were tall, and the night sky barely penetrated the canopy. Only a few silvery rays from the full moon escaped through the cracks, like blades of light cutting through the darkness.
After silently climbing a slope covered with roots, I positioned myself at a high point with good visibility. I took the bow from my back and fitted a white-feathered arrow with calm, almost ceremonial movements. I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath.
I felt the world vibrate around me—a new sense, something that was still foreign to me. Eleven presences. Ten veteran warriors. One commander. All positioned around a makeshift campfire.
I opened my eyes.
I jumped off the log, landing softly in the mud. My feet sank with a slight, muffled "splat" I crawled through the bushes, winding through the shadows until I found an angle. One of them was exposed, away from the others — he was the archer of the group, the only one with elevated vision.
Perfect.
I took a deep breath and pulled the bowstring back to its limit. The sound was as soft as the whisper of the wind. I aimed upward, calculating the arrow's curve. My fingers opened.
The arrow cut through the air.
"Aaaaaaargh!" A scream tore through the night. A sharp sound, followed by the crack of wood being pierced.
The arrow dug deep into the archer's chest and pinned him against a thick tree behind him. The body shook, then lay still. Chaos erupted immediately.
"SOMEONE SHOT!" yelled one of the men.
"THROW DIRT ON THE FIRE!" shouted another, trying to extinguish the light.
"WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?!" the commander roared, drawing his sword.
I hid behind a thick tree, its damp trunk sticking to my sweaty back. My breathing was steady, controlled, but my heart was beating fast—not from fear, but from precision. It was almost as if each beat was a countdown. I placed another arrow in my bow.