4: Darken War

14: Alexandria

Chapter Fourteen: Alexandria

After dinner, I found myself drifting toward the training grounds. Alone.

The palace felt too still, too full of memories, too quiet now that the children were gone. I needed the familiar weight of my bow in my hand. I needed to feel the pull of the string against my fingers, the satisfying snap of a well-loosed arrow, the thud of impact. It had always helped silence the noise in my head, even if only for a little while.

I stepped into the open field where straw targets had been set up for training. A soft breeze carried the scent of fresh grass and oil from the weapon racks nearby. The sky was streaked with the last golds and reds of twilight.

I summoned my bow, and in a shimmer of light, it appeared in my hand—familiar, comforting, perfect. A matching quiver, always full, materialized on my back. No matter how many arrows I fired, it would never empty. A gift from an ancient god, or a curse, depending on the day.

I faced the closest target, a circle of tightly woven straw and wood. Worn in the center, but still sturdy. I nocked an arrow, pulled the string to the corner of my mouth, aimed, and released.

Perfect center.

I fired again. And again. Arrow after arrow, each one splitting the one before it. Precision had always come easily to me, but today... it felt mechanical. Like I wasn't even there.

I was about to loose another when—

"That's the one thing I've never been able to beat you at."

James's voice startled me. The arrow loosed early, landing slightly off-center.

"Damn it, James." I turned with a sharp glare. "I had a good streak going."

He smirked, crossing his arms. "What are husbands for, if not for messing up their wives? In more ways than one."

I felt my face flush. "Rude."

He chuckled. "Remember when you promised to teach me?"

I nodded. "You finally ready to learn?"

"I figured... it's about time I knew how to use more than a sword. Especially with what's coming."

I walked over to the racks, selected a longbow that would suit his height, and returned with it and a standard quiver of arrows.

"First lesson," I said, placing the quiver on his back, "is that it's not about hitting the center. It's about hitting the target. Even a wound to the arm or leg can change the course of a fight. Precision isn't about perfection. It's about impact."

He held the bow awkwardly, in the wrong hand.

"Dear gods," I sighed. "Other hand."

He blinked. "What?"

"You're left-handed, James. You need to mirror me." I held up my bow. "Your draw arm should be your dominant hand. Otherwise your aim will always be off."

He switched hands.

"Better."

I pulled an arrow from my own quiver. "Your arrows are training arrows. See the paint on the feathers? The painted feather should face your bow arm. Nock it on the side that aligns with your draw."

He fumbled slightly but managed to get it nocked correctly.

I eyed his stance and grimaced. "Absolutely not."

He blinked. "What?"

"Stand side to your target," I said, moving closer. "You want your body turned. Not squared. Like this."