Chapter 14 - The first arrow

 At dawn, I sat with the bow balanced across my knees, the morning mist clinging to my hair and seeping into my bones. My stomach grumbled, but today wasn't about food—not yet. Today was about proving this weapon wasn't just a stick with a string. If I could master it, even a little, I might stand a chance at bringing down something bigger than a rabbit. I could almost taste venison in my imagination, even though I'd never killed a deer before. I picked up one of the rough arrows I had carved last night, running my thumb along the uneven shaft. It wasn't perfect—the point was duller than I wanted, the feathers lopsided—but it was mine. I set it against the string, holding it the way Dad had once shown me, thumb steady, fingers loose but firm. My target was simple: the trunk of a tree about twenty paces away. Just wood, but in my mind it was alive, moving, something that could keep me alive in return. I pulled the string back. The tension burned in my arm, my chest tight with focus. The bow creaked slightly, the string quivering with the effort, and for a second I wondered if it would snap. My fingers slipped, and the arrow released too early. It wobbled through the air and clattered harmlessly into the dirt, skidding across the frost-bitten ground. I closed my eyes, exhaling in frustration. If that had been an animal, it would've been long gone. But I wasn't giving up. Not now. I tried again. I retrieved the arrow, not caring that mud streaked the fletching, and nocked it against the string. This time I took a deep breath before pulling back. My arm ached from holding the tension, but I forced myself to focus on the tree. I let go. The arrow flew straighter, striking the bark with a dull thud before bouncing off and landing at the roots. Not a kill. Not even close. But it had touched. I was closer. Shot after shot, I repeated the process. Some arrows veered wildly to the side, others dropped short and buried themselves in the soil. My hands grew raw from the string snapping against my skin, but I kept going. Every mistake reminded me of Dad's voice, calm and steady: "You don't get it right the first time. You don't even get it right the tenth. But one day, it sticks—and when it does, you'll never forget the feeling." Hours passed. The sun rose higher, burning away the mist, until sweat stuck to my forehead and my shoulders screamed with exhaustion. But finally, when I drew the string back and let the arrow fly, I heard it—a sharp, satisfying crack as the arrow bit into the tree. It didn't sink deep, just an inch or so, but it held there, trembling with life. I walked up to it slowly, almost afraid it would fall before I got there. My hand brushed the shaft, still quivering, and I let out a shaky laugh. It wasn't perfect, not even close, but it was real. A beginning. A weapon that could someday mean survival. I yanked the arrow free, holding it like a treasure. For the first time in days, I felt a rush of pride instead of fear, strength instead of weakness. I whispered to myself, "This will keep me alive." And for the first time, I actually believed it.