Two men crouched in silence, bowstrings drawn taut, eyes locked on a rabbit nibbling on the grass below its feet. Within moments, one of them loosed his arrow, striking true. A satisfied smile spread across his face.
"Your archery has improved," the older man remarked as the young hunter retrieved the lifeless rabbit.
"This is nothing compared to my swordsmanship, Uncle Bruse," he replied with a smirk.
"Hah! My nephew is truly a man now. You should take a wife soon, Reynand."
Reynand scoffed. "That again? I told you—I'm not suited for any romantic relationship."
"Who said anything about romance?" Bruse arched a brow. "This is politics. The war with Gravalon is only two weeks away. If you don't marry and give your March a Marchioness, don't blame anyone when it's taken from you. A wife will secure your position and ensure protection in the castle."
Bruse studied the handsome young man stuffing the rabbit into a netted sack, disbelief flickering in his eyes.
