The Bristleleaf Family Woodworks stood unchanged from Edric's last visit, its ornate carvings catching the late-morning light. The sign of the Oak and Arrow swayed gently in the breeze.

  The shop door was slightly ajar, the familiar scent of wood dust and linseed oil drifting out. Through the opening, he could hear the rhythmic sound of sanding—long, careful strokes that spoke of practiced patience.

  He pushed the door open slowly, the bell chiming softly.

  Footsteps approached from the back room, and Wren emerged through the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. A fine layer of sawdust coated the fabric, and a few wood shavings clung to her dark hair. She'd clearly been in the middle of something when the bell rang.

  "Sir Edric," she said, surprise flashing across her face. "Are you early? Father hasn't returned yet." Her eyes swept over him, taking in the clean clothes that couldn't quite conceal the exhaustion in his features. "Are you all right?"

  "Long night. I apologize for my appearance, but I need the bow as soon as possible," Edric replied.

  Wren wiped her hands again, studying him with the same assessing gaze her father often used. She seemed to weigh something privately before speaking. "Father left before dawn," she explained. "He went to fetch a certain kind of lumber and check his trapline near the western woods. Said he'd be back by midday—maybe a bit after."

  *The woods,* Edric thought, alarm prickling at the back of his mind.

  "Is the bow finished?" he asked, forcing his voice to stay even.

  Wren hesitated, glancing toward the back of the shop where completed orders were stored. "It is, but Father usually prefers to hand over orders himself—make sure everything's right, answer questions…"

  "I understand," Edric said, taking a step closer but keeping his tone calm and posture open. "But I need it now. There's been… an incident outside town."

  The young woman's expression sharpened with concern. "What kind of incident?"

  Edric considered how much to reveal. "A demon beast. A dangerous one. I need to be properly armed."

  Wren's fingers worried at the edge of her apron, clearly torn between her father's usual protocol and the urgency in Edric's voice. After a long moment, she nodded decisively. "If it's that important… I can release it to you. But I need to see you string it, and make sure everything's properly fitted."

  "Of course," Edric agreed quickly. "Whatever you need."

  She disappeared into the back room and returned moments later with a long bundle wrapped in oiled cloth. Beside it, she carried a leather quiver containing a dozen arrows.

  "These arrows are matched to your bow's draw length," she explained, setting the bundle carefully on the counter.

  Wren carefully unwrapped the cloth, revealing the finished bow.

  Edric had expected a bow built purely with utility in mind—made with care, yes, but rushed to order. Instead, the craftsmanship exceeded all expectations. The weapon was as much a work of art as any of Maryn's other masterpieces. The wood—ash, he thought, though darker than typical, had been shaped with such precision that the limbs appeared to flow naturally from the riser. What truly captured his attention were the decorative elements near the handle: delicate inlays of contrasting wood forming a pattern of leaves and vines.

  "Some might say it's unnecessary work," Wren said, noticing his attention. "But Ma said a hero's bow should have something special." She ran her fingers along the smooth wood. "The inlays are only placed where they won't interfere with function—Father is very particular about that."

  *Maryn's characteristic work,* Edric thought, recalling the same craftsmanship throughout the shop. *He couldn't help himself.*

  "It's exceptional," Edric said honestly.

  Wren smiled slightly, pride shining through her attempt at professional composure. "Now, let me show you how to string it properly."

  She retrieved a bowstring from a small box—already prepared, waxed, and fitted with the colored knots Edric had requested at eye-level positions. She demonstrated the stringing technique: bracing the lower limb against her foot, bending the bow carefully while sliding the upper loop into its groove. Her movements were confident, practiced to muscle memory under her father's instruction.

  "Your turn," she said, unstringing the bow and handing it to him. "You need to be able to do this yourself."

  Edric followed her example. The bow required considerable strength to bend, his sore shoulders protesting from the previous night's ordeal, but he managed under her guidance. He was impressed that Wren had managed to string it despite her smaller stature.

  "Good enough," Wren approved. "Now unstring it. And remember—never store it strung. The tension will warp the limbs over time."

  He repeated the process in reverse. Wren watched closely, offering small corrections as needed.

  "You seem very comfortable handling orders," Edric observed. "Managing the shop on your own."

  "Someone has to keep it running when Pa's chasing timber or clients," she replied with a faint smile. "Ma's nervous with customers—she's not much of a people person."

  *A family working together,* Edric thought, a bittersweet ache tightening his chest. *Each contributing their strengths.*

  He counted out the remaining silver steds from his pouch, watching his supply diminish to nearly nothing—only copper bits remained. The coins clinked softly as Wren checked them against her father's ledger.

  "One ayzel, four steds," she confirmed, marking the transaction. "Paid in full." She wrapped the bowstring and laid it beside the bow. "Treat it well!"

  "I will," Edric promised, then he paused, remembering. "I need you to give your father a message when he returns."

  "Of course."

  "Tell him not to leave town again for several days," Edric said carefully. "Not into the woods—nowhere outside Larkenshire."

  Wren's eyes widened. "The demon beast you mentioned?"

  "Yes," Edric confirmed. "It's dangerous and intelligent. Your father shouldn't risk being alone outside the city." He met her gaze directly.

  She swallowed hard, nodding. "I'll tell him. And… should we be worried? Here in town?"

  "The castle has been warned," Edric said, unwilling to lie but careful not to spark panic. "Just stay within the walls for now."

  "Thank you for the warning," Wren said after a moment.

  Edric finished securing the bow and quiver. The weight felt right—solid and reassuring in a way his empty hands hadn't since encountering Snargrin.

  "And thank your father for the excellent work," he added. "The inlays weren't necessary, but they're appreciated."

  "I'll tell Ma you liked the detail work," Wren promised, already moving to lock the strongbox containing his payment. "Be careful, Sir Edric."

  As he stepped back into the afternoon sunlight, Edric felt a measure of his anxiety ease. He was now properly armed—with a weapon suited to his height and customized for his method of aiming.

  *Not enough to face Snargrin directly,* he acknowledged grimly. *But better than nothing.*

  The training yard waited—and with it, the chance to see whether his methodical, rifle-trained approach to marksmanship could translate to this ancient weapon.

  ---

  The southern bailey was quieter than it had been during the morning training sessions, the packed earth still stamped with boot prints from earlier drills. The archery range stood empty.

  *Perfect,* Edric thought, making his way toward the range. *No audience while I figure this out.*

  He set down the wrapped bow carefully, then the quiver of arrows. The polished wood gleamed under the afternoon sun, those unnecessary but exquisite inlays catching his eye again.

  *Maryn really couldn't help himself,* Edric thought with a ghost of a smile.

  He retrieved the bowstring and strung it as Wren had shown him.

  He tested the draw, pulling back just enough to check the colored knots Maryn had placed on the string.

  Selecting an arrow, he examined its make. The shaft was straight and balanced, the fletching neat, the iron head sharp and evenly weighted. *Good work,* he acknowledged. *Let's see if I can do it justice.*

  He positioned himself at a medium range from the nearest target—perhaps thirty yards, a distance that would have been trivial with a rifle but felt uncertain with this new weapon. His stance came naturally: feet shoulder-width apart, body squared, the familiar base of disciplined shooting habits adapted for the bow.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The first draw felt wrong. His grip was too stiff, his shoulders too tense. When he released, the arrow sailed high and wide, disappearing into the dirt beyond the target with a dull thud.

  "Damn," Edric muttered, already setting another arrow to the string.

  *Like squeezing a trigger,* he reminded himself. *Smooth pressure until the break, not a sudden jerk. Same principles—breath control, steady aim. Except there's no trigger. Just a clean release.*

  He focused on the sighting marks Maryn had carved along the upper limb—small notches at measured intervals for different ranges. Combined with the colored knots and the small index notch on the riser where the arrow rested, they formed a crude but functional sighting system.

  The second arrow flew low, clipping the bottom edge of the straw target.

  *Better,* Edric thought, recalibrating. *Elevation's off, but the lateral alignment's closer.*

  He shifted his stance slightly, adjusted his anchor point to the next colored knot, and released. The arrow struck solidly this time—still well off-center, but finally on target.

  "That's progress," he said aloud to the empty training yard.

  Over the next several shots, Edric began to find his rhythm. Each arrow offered data—too high meant adjusting his elevation reference, too far left required a correction to his release or anchor point. It was methodical work, the kind of precision shooting he'd always excelled at, just through different tools.

  His grouping tightened. The arrows began clustering together on one side of the target, no longer scattered randomly. Not accurate yet, but more consistent.

  *Don't grip so hard,* he reminded himself, forcing his fingers to relax. *You're not fighting the weapon—work with it.*

  The next volley landed closer still—four arrows within a handspan of each other, slightly left of center.

  "Loosen your shoulder."

  The voice startled him mid-draw. Edric turned to find General Rennard standing a dozen paces behind, arms crossed, those sharp, assessing eyes missing nothing.

  "You're tensing up like you expect a blow," the General continued, stepping closer. "You keep bracing yourself. What are you anticipating?"

  Edric lowered the bow. *He's right,* Edric noted, irritated with himself.

  "Recoil," he admitted. "Where I'm from, our weapons… push back when fired. It's instinct to brace against it."

  "Well, that bow won't push you anywhere," Rennard said dryly. "All you're doing is throwing off your alignment."

  Edric adjusted accordingly—posture balanced but relaxed.

  "Better," Rennard approved. He studied the bow itself, noting the colored knots and the carved marks along the limb. His weathered face showed curiosity. "What are these for? The marks and colors?"

  "Reference points," Edric explained, tracing one of the notches with a finger. "Each mark corresponds to a measured range. The colored knots help me find consistent anchor points—where the string should align for each distance." He drew the bow back to demonstrate. "This mark here is about thirty yards. The next one—" he shifted slightly "—maybe fifty. It helps control elevation and windage."

  "Windage?" Rennard repeated, eyebrow rising at the unfamiliar term.

  "Lateral drift," Edric clarified. "Adjusting for crosswind or natural arrow flight. Where I come from, we call it registering a sight zero for each range."

  The General clearly didn't grasp every nuance, but his expression showed respect. The measured discipline behind Edric's strange terminology echoed the precision of a soldier's drill.

  "Show me," Rennard said simply.

  Edric nocked an arrow, checked his stance again, and drew. The motion flowed more naturally now. He aligned the sighting marks, settled the colored knot against the corner of his mouth, exhaled slowly and steadily, then released.

  The arrow struck left of center.

  He repeated the process four more times in quick succession. Each arrow landed in a cluster no larger than the spread of his hand.

  "Impressive for an amateur." Rennard walked to the target to inspect the results.

  "Interesting," he said, returning with one of the arrows. "Most archers rely on instinct—shoot enough arrows and your body remembers the feel. But this…" He gestured toward the marks on the bow. "This is more like… a craftsman measuring twice before cutting."

  "It's just about being able to *measure* my shot," Edric replied. "Make the same shot the same way each time, and you'll get the same result. Then you adjust the reference until the result is what you want."

  Rennard's posture shifted, his focus sharpening. The easy tone of a training session vanished. "Tarvish's report mentioned you had an encounter. With Snargrin."

  "I guess I shouldn't be surprised you heard about that," Edric said.

  "Hard not to," Rennard replied. "Hero wanders out alone at night, comes back at dawn, soaked and half-dead from exhaustion—the whole castle's talking." His weathered face remained unreadable.

  Edric merely nodded.

  "I want to hear what happened for the source. Tell me what happened," Rennard demanded.

  He gave a precise account: where it had happened, the monster's sheer size, the single glassy eye, the way it circled him deliberately and sniffed to identify his scent. Its questions about Kornic's crew. The threat aimed at "the spoiled halfling child."

  Rennard listened in silence, arms crossed. When Edric described the compressed-air trick—the loud crack that had startled Snargrin long enough for him to reach the river—the General's brows rose a fraction.

  "Clever, using the unknown as a weapon shows good instinct," he acknowledged. Edric ignored the lingering caveat Rennard was waiting to voice.

  "Can't confirm whether what Kornic's crew said about its hide is true," he lamented. "I didn't even attempt to hit it."

  "It's true," Rennard said flatly. "I've seen the aftermath of Snargrin's attacks. Arrowheads never penetrated—just glanced off or stuck shallow in the hide." He paused. "Kornic taking an axe to its eye is the only confirmed injury anyone's inflicted." His mouth twisted slightly. "Calling that a victory is generous. The creature killed two of his men before they even broke formation. And now it's wandering our territory looking for revenge."

  Some of the tension in Edric's chest eased. At least Rennard wasn't questioning his retreat. "I did the right thing, then? Running?"

  "You did the *only* thing," Rennard corrected. "Retreat was your only real option—alone, at night, no escape plan. That was a good tactical decision, considering the bad situation you'd already put yourself in."

  The comfort didn't last.

  "What you did before that," Rennard continued, expression hardening, "was *stupid.*" The blunt word hit like a blow. "You didn't scout your surroundings, didn't ensure multiple exits, and didn't bring backup. You handed your enemy every advantage before you even knew you were in danger."

  Edric grimaced but didn't argue. *It was stupid.*

  "You're lucky you're not dead," Rennard said bluntly. "Or worse—captured and used as bait. Snargrin is cunning enough for that."

  The thought sent a shiver through Edric. He hadn't considered the possibility of the beast taking him alive and using him as leverage.

  "I wasn't thinking clearly," he admitted quietly. "I was… dealing with something else. I let my guard down."

  Rennard studied him for a moment, clearly sensing there was more behind those words but choosing not to press. "Next time," he said evenly, "think clearly *before* you leave the city walls. Understood?"

  Edric nodded, having been appropriately chastened for his actions.

  The General moved to inspect the target again, pacing as he thought aloud. "Normal halfling bows won't pierce that hide—we don't have the draw weight." He glanced toward Edric's weapon. "Yours might be strong enough. You've got the build to pull more weight. With a heavy arrow and a solid head, you might drive it deep."

  "Might," Edric echoed. "Not exactly confidence-inspiring odds."

  "No," Rennard agreed flatly. "Which is why you don't fight that thing on its own terms."

  He began pacing, working through possibilities aloud. "If you have to engage it—and Herald help you if it comes to that—you need *every* advantage. Keep a distance, but not open ground. Wide spaces favor a creature that size; nothing to break its charge, nowhere to hide if things go wrong." He gestured toward the walls. "You want terrain that limits movement. Broken ground. Trees spaced enough to block a straight rush but not your lines of fire. Noise and distractions help. Snargrin tracks by scent—anything to confuse that sense gives you a chance." His voice took on a dark edge. "And you fight dirty: poisoned arrowheads, traps, diversions, fire. Never—*never*—a direct fight."

  He turned to meet Edric's eyes. "There's no such thing as 'fair' when it's a monster. You understand me? The only rule is survival."

  "I understand," Edric said.

  Rennard pointed at the longbow. "And make every shot count. Once Snargrin knows where you are, you get one chance—maybe two—before it's on you. Miss, and you're dead."

  The words settled between them with grim finality. No false reassurance. No heroic talk—just tactical truth.

  "Enough of that," Rennard said abruptly. "You've got the basics, but there's room for improvement. Let's work."

  The General stepped beside him, close enough to scrutinize every detail of posture and draw. "Again. Same target."

  Edric nocked another arrow and settled into his stance, feeling Rennard's gaze track every motion.

  They cycled through sets, Rennard calling out adjustments between each volley.

  "Bring your elbow up. You're keeping it too low on the draw, putting strain on the shoulder."

  "Your shoulder wants to creep forward—that's wasted energy. Keep it back and down. Anchor the shoulder blade."

  "When you loose, you're letting the string travel forward first. Repeat that shot, but let it slip from your fingertips."

  "Don't hold the draw so long. The longer you hold, the more you shake. Aim and release."

  "Keep your string hand relaxed until release. Don't strangle the bow."

  Each correction refined Edric's form. Arrow after arrow struck closer to the center, his groupings shrinking with every round.

  "There," the General said with satisfaction. "That's the shot you want—clean, centered, repeatable. Again."

  "Your breathing's good," Rennard observed, watching several shots in silence. "Controlled, even under fatigue. Most novice archers rush when tired." His weathered face showed a flicker of respect.

  He studied Edric for another beat. "This mechanical approach of yours—the marks, the measurements, the adjustments—it's strange. But it works. You're finding consistency faster than most I've trained."

  "As I said before, I'm a marksman—just not with a bow," Edric replied, nocking another arrow. "Same goal, different weapon."

  "Maybe there's more to this hero than I first thought," Rennard acknowledged softly.

  The comment caught Edric off guard. He glanced over, but the General's expression had already returned to its usual, unreadable calm.

  They kept at it as the sun began its slow descent toward the western hills. Arrows flew, struck, were retrieved, and flew again. Edric's arms burned from the repeated draws, the skin of his fingers rubbed raw.

  But the groups stayed tight—center-mass, shot after shot. His methodical approach was paying off.

  Rennard finally called a halt when the light began to fade.

  "That's enough for today," he said, watching Edric pull his last arrows from the target. "You'll tear something if you keep pushing those muscles."

  Edric wanted to argue but knew better. His shoulders screamed in protest, and his fingertips burned.

  "The Regent will need a clear record of Snargrin's behavior when she returns," Rennard continued, his tone shifting back to business. "We'll have to track it if possible—map its territory, maybe bait it away from the settlements."

  "Or draw it into a trap," Edric said.

  "Maybe." Rennard's voice gave nothing away. "That's a discussion for when the Regent authorizes action." He folded his arms, thoughtful. "For now, conserve your strength. I'll commission heavier arrowheads from Finn's forge, ones best suited to piercing chain mail—if it comes to a fight."

  Edric nodded.

  What he wanted were case-hardened steel heads—the extra penetration could make the difference. But that required charcoal, which meant venturing into the woods. Into *Snargrin's* woods.

  *The charcoal will have to wait,* he decided. *Until that monster's dealt with.*

  "Get some rest," Rennard ordered as he turned to leave. "And stay inside the walls after dark. That's not a suggestion. If Snargrin shows up, I want you rested and ready."

  "Understood," Edric replied.

  The General gave a single curt nod and strode off, leaving him alone in the dimming yard. For a long moment, Edric stood with bow in hand, gazing at the target bristling with arrows.

  *Dead-center shots,* he thought with grim satisfaction. *At this range, anyway.*

  But Snargrin wouldn't stand still like a straw target. The beast would be moving—charging—using terrain and darkness as its allies.

  *I need that crossbow,* he thought again. *Something I can aim fast without holding the draw. Something strong enough to punch through that wire-hide.*

  Yet the crossbow was still weeks away from reality. First, he'd need the funds, then the construction time, then testing and refinement. And Snargrin was already out there—*now.*

  Edric unstrung the bow with care, following Wren's instructions precisely. He secured his bow and quiver. The combined weight felt reassuring as he walked back toward his room in the castle.

  *Four weeks until Kornic returns,* Edric thought. *Four weeks to prepare—to train—to find a way to kill something that isn't supposed to be killable.*

  He rested a hand on the bow's smooth wood one last time before turning away from the window.

  *I'll be ready,* he promised himself. *Whatever it takes.*

  The words felt hollow even as he said them—but they were all he had.