The first light of dawn spilled pale across the stones. Eva had hardly slept — her mind replayed every word, every look, the memory of Lucarion's hand beneath her chin, the ghost of his kiss on her cheek.
By the earliest watch, she had risen, restless. Her feet carried her through dew-slick courtyards to the stables.
Lucy lifted her head at once, ears pricked, and let out a soft whicker of recognition. Relief swelled in Eva's chest as she pressed her face to the mare's warm velvet neck. Lucy smelled of hay and earth, steady and familiar. Eva exhaled, letting the rhythm of the horse's breath ease the tension clenched inside her.
She stayed until her thoughts began circling again. Fencing practice would begin within the hour.
Would she continue as if nothing had happened? Apologize for her anger and candor? Or skip the morning entirely? Her grip on Lucy's mane tightened. She already knew she would go.
By the time the sun crested the horizon, Eva had smoothed her hair, brushed the hay from her skirts, and felt almost herself again. Lucy's calm presence lingered like a balm, steadying her enough to face the day.
She walked through the corridors, thoughts still circling but less sharp, until she reached her chamber doors — and froze.
Lucarion stood there. Straight-backed, composed, as though waiting.
Eva forced her voice steady. "Your Grace, is everything alright?"
"It is," he said, tone even, gentler than expected. "I came to find you. I thought perhaps we might change our sport today." His gaze searched hers. "Archery, instead of fencing. If you're interested."
Eva blinked. "Archery?" No steel clashing, no strikes or parries demanding confrontation. Side by side, not face to face. "I've always been more of a melee sort of girl… but it does sound appealing." A corner of her mouth tugged upward, despite herself.
Lucarion inclined his head and offered his arm. "Then come. The grounds are prepared."
She placed her hand on his sleeve, the contact formal enough to mask the ripple of unease beneath her calm.
"You were awake early," he observed. "I hadn't expected to find you outside your chambers at this hour."
"I wanted to see Lucy before practice," she said evenly, eyes softening as she recalled the mare's quiet steadiness. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting long outside my door."
"You didn't," he said smoothly. "I had only just knocked when you stepped into the hall."
Beyond the keep, the air was crisp, touched with dew. The archery grounds stretched wide, lined with straw butts at measured intervals, banners lifting faintly in the morning breeze. Attendants waited at a distance, bows and quivers already laid out.
Lucarion did not release her arm until the edge of the range. His hand lingered a fraction longer than courtesy required before he let go.
He gestured to the bows on the rack. "Each of these was designed by me," he said proudly. "I commissioned them from master bowyers, but the shape, balance, tension—they're mine. Each bow has a personality: some fast, some sturdy, some demanding precision, others strength."
Eva stepped closer, fingers brushing the polished wood. She traced the subtle curves and the grain of the wood, feeling the artistry in each line. "They're incredible. I can see the thought that went into them," she murmured, genuinely captivated.
"They were made for me," he said, "and most will be too long or too stiff for you. We'll need to find one that suits your hands and form. But first, we should change into proper attire."
She followed him to a small preparation area where fitted jackets and trousers hung ready, designed for mobility and reinforced at the shoulders and elbows. She stepped into a dark, close-cut tunic and fitted trousers, the fabric soft yet durable, laced snugly at her waist. Lucarion already wore his training attire — a tailored vest over a linen shirt, trousers allowing full freedom of movement, boots laced tight.
As they prepared to leave, his gaze flicked to the sweep of her hair falling over her shoulders. "It might get in the way," he murmured, reaching out with a careful hand to gather and tie it back.
With that done, they returned to the bows.
Eva lifted a sleek recurve, drawing the string experimentally. Her fingers barely fit, the pull stretching her arms too far. Lucarion stepped behind her to adjust her wrist. "Too much draw length here," he murmured. "Relax your shoulder. Let the bow settle against your form." She felt a subtle heat at the nape of her neck, but focused on the weapon, her curiosity sharpening.
Next, a slightly shorter longbow. She drew again; tension bit her forearms. Lucarion guided her elbow gently. "Closer. Let it flow naturally. Don't force it." His body shifted with hers, she took a breath to focus.
With each attempt, he explained subtle differences: weight distribution, draw tension, string material, the subtle hum of a perfectly balanced limb. Eva listened, captivated, asking questions, eager to understand the precision and care behind each choice. "I never knew there could be so many variations," she murmured, genuinely impressed.
Finally, she held a shorter recurve. Limbs strong but flexible, grip fitting perfectly. She drew fully, smooth and steady. Lucarion's eyes followed her motion. "This one," he said, "it bends to your form. It is yours."
Eva lowered the bow, a small smile tugging at her lips. "It feels right."
Lucarion inclined his head, a faint crease of approval. "Now try a few shots."
She nocked an arrow, taking aim at the straw butt downrange. Lucarion stepped behind her, hands brushing her arms as he adjusted her stance. Each release brought subtle corrections: wrist tilt, shoulder angle, draw rhythm.
The first arrow veered left. "Too much tension," he murmured, warmth brushing her back. She felt the tug of awareness—the way his presence hovered just behind her, guiding without imposing.
The second grazed the target's edge. "Better. Steady… feel the bow, let it guide you." Her pulse had quickened, but she let it, curious at the effect of him, at the rhythm of her own breath matching the motion of the bow and arrow.
By the third shot, the arrow struck dead center. Eva's chest lifted with a small, triumphant laugh. Lucarion's gaze lingered, corners of his mouth twitching in satisfaction.
She lowered the bow, exhaling softly. "I have to admit, archery had always seemed too still for me. But it is surprisingly exhilarating," she said, voice shy but bright, feeling an unexpected thrill in mastering something new under his guidance.
Lucarion inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I'm glad it suits you. Come—there's one more I want to show you."
He approached reverently, selecting a taller bow, limbs polished to a deep, glossy hue. "This is the culmination of my efforts. Every other bow was a step toward this—tests of balance, draw, and design. I sought perfection, and this… this is it."
He drew the string effortlessly; the arrow flew, precise and graceful, striking dead center. The bow and archer moved as one, almost divine in execution.
Eva's breath caught. She watched, enthralled, noting the fluidity of his motions, the power and elegance combined in perfect harmony. "It's… magnificent," she whispered.
He lowered the bow, eyes flicking to hers. "Every detail matters. The perfect weapon responds to the wielder. And sometimes," he added, softer, "the wielder elevates the weapon as much as the weapon defines the wielder."
He held it toward her, polished wood gleaming. "It's built for precision, but also responsiveness. You'll feel it, not just in your arms, but in your intent."
Her fingers hovered over the grip, tracing it almost reverently. "It feels… different," she murmured. "Lighter than it looks, but solid."
He stepped closer, just behind her, presence warming the space. "The stance is important," he murmured, guiding her shoulders with gentle touches. "Elbows aligned, weight balanced. The bow obeys the archer, but the archer must first respect the bow."
She inhaled, following his instructions. He adjusted her grip, subtly tilting his body to demonstrate the draw. Now she was acutely aware of every flicker of movement, every fraction of a second of his nearness, and found herself leaning slightly into his guidance, curious, attentive, and quietly thrilled.
"Try drawing," he whispered. "Slowly. Feel the tension, the pull," breath brushing her ear.
She obeyed; the string hummed against her fingers. The arrow rested against the bow, thrumming with potential.
"Good," he murmured. "Release when it feels right."
Her breath hitched; the arrow flew, striking nearer the center than she expected. Lucarion's lips curved. "Not bad. The weapon responds well to you. You have… aptitude."
Eva's chest lifted with quiet pride. "It's incredible. I can see why you favor it." She swallowed, feeling the subtle electricity in the shared space.
He inclined his head, studying her. "It demands respect, but it rewards attentiveness, patience… and a steady hand. Much like everything else worth mastering."
She finished her draw, then slowly turned her head to meet his gaze. He remained just behind her, allowing her the choice to step away or stay. The bow was no longer the center of their attention, momentarily forgotten—only the quiet tension, unspoken understanding, and the charged intimacy that had been building between them.