The shooting practice had finally come to an end.
All across the clearing, elves were dismantling their weapons and placing them back into their respective cases.
The distant targets were riddled with holes—some clustered tightly, others scattered wildly, each telling the story of its shooter's skill.
Spent bullet shells littered the ground like tiny golden flowers, and the air hung thick with the sharp scent of gunpowder and smoke.
And right now every elf wore the same expression: reluctance
Reluctane to let go of the strange, addictive power they had held in their hands.
After all, there was something about firing a gun.
The instant feedback, the raw force, the way a simple squeeze of the finger could reach out and touch something so far away that was undeniably thrilling.
Even knowing that bows were their true heritage, even understanding the dangers these weapons represented, they couldn't deny the rush.
