THWAP.
The bowstring snaps forward.
The doe's head jerks up—ears twitching, eyes wide— Too late.
The arrow punches through her chest. She stumbles once, legs folding as if the earth simply decided she'd had enough of standing. She hits the ground without a cry. For a heartbeat, the clearing holds its breath.
Then the herd explodes—white tails flashing between trunks. Leaves shudder. Silence returns.
From the undergrowth, a figure steps forward. Slow at first. Listening. The swamp never stays empty for long.
He pauses just inside the tree line, amber eyes sweeping left, then right, then up into the canopy. His fingers twirl a knife once—habit, not nerves—before settling into a firm grip. Nothing moves but insects and distant reeds. He waits one breath longer than necessary. Then steps into the clearing.
The doe lies still. Clean shot. Heart. He gives the smallest nod and kneels. The knife flashes once in the light and disappears into work. Efficient. No wasted motion. Even at fourteen, his hands don't shake.
By the time he finishes field dressing the carcass, the light has shifted. He wipes the blade on grass, sheaths it, and hoists the deer over one shoulder. It's heavy. He adjusts once and starts walking.
The forest closes behind him—roots twisting like coiled serpents, vines hanging low, the air thick and alive with unseen movement. He doesn't follow trails. He follows memory. He moves faster. Blood carries. And the swamp is never the only thing that smells it.
The first sign of home is the bridge—old wood, warped and soft at the edges. It always groans on the third plank from the end. Alvis steps over it without looking down.
Beyond it, thatch roofs rise from the green. Smoke drifts upward into a narrow slice of sky the village fights daily to keep from closing.
Two Creeks.
He approaches the hanging tree where an older man sharpens a blade against stone. The scraping stops as Alvis nears.
"Well now," the man says, pushing himself upright. "There you are, Alvis."
Alvis drops the deer at the base of the tree. "Thought you'd started without me."
The old man studies the carcass. Then the boy. "Heart shot."
Alvis nods. "Always is. You should know that by now, Mr. Hudson."
Sweat darkens his collar. Briars have torn the hem of his cloak. Sunlight catches in his long, sun-bleached hair where it sticks to his forehead.
Mr. Hudson glances at the bow slung across Alvis's back. "Looks like you're starting to outgrow her. Might be time for a new one."
Alvis looks down at it. Dark oak. Polished. Cared for. "She's fine."
"For now," Hudson says. "But you won't stay fourteen forever."
Alvis smirks. "Doesn't feel like I am now."
Together, they string the deer up. The rope creaks as the carcass sways before settling.
"You and Floris," Hudson says after a moment. "Hard to believe. Feels like yesterday we were being told which end of a bow to hold."
Alvis grunts as he pulls the rope tight. "And not long before that… we were found in the swamp." He ties off the line and wipes his hands on his trousers. "You ever hear anything about the ones who left us?"
Hudson's knife presses into the hide. "Not my place to tell ya. The only ones who might've known were the men who found you. And… well…"
"They all died," Alvis says.
"Aye." Hudson doesn't look up. "When the swamp eagle came through. Them, and many others." He pauses. "I assume you remember why."
Alvis closes his eyes and exhales. "Hard not to." He opens them again, looking toward Floris's house across the village. "At least he took its eye."
Hudson nods slowly. "Aye. Impressive shot. Especially for how young he was."
Alvis slings his pack over one shoulder and checks inside. "Speaking of Floris… I've got things to get to him."
"Then you'd best do it," Hudson says. "You know his work doesn't wait."
Alvis nods and heads down the main path.
Two Creeks rests between split waterways, huts raised on stilts above damp earth. A narrow central path cuts through the village. Gardens line one side of it, storage sheds the other. There are fewer houses than there should be.
Alvis keeps walking.
Floris's home stands near the northeastern edge, larger than most. Its gardens are orderly—rows of medicinal herbs, flowering stalks, bitter plants Alvis has never bothered to name. Bees hum lazily behind the structure.
Alvis climbs the steps and pushes the door open.
The smell hits first. Sweet. Sour. Metallic.
Ajenna sits near the hearth, shaping clay on a spinning base. Her hands move steadily, pressing and guiding.
"You're tracking mud," she says without looking up.
Alvis scrapes his boots harder against the threshold. "Looking for Floris."
"Upstairs. Don't touch anything."
"I never do."
She lifts her eyes.
Alvis sighs and heads for the stairs.
Floris stands at the center table, scarf tied over his mouth and nose. His quill moves steadily across the page.
He doesn't look up.
"Brought the aloe," Alvis says, holding up the bundle.
The scratching stops.
Floris turns, takes the leaves, and inspects them carefully. He rolls one between his fingers.
"It won't work," he murmurs.
Alvis shifts his weight. "What won't?"
"The reaction." Floris sets the aloe aside and scans another page. "I misjudged the binding."
Alvis exhales through his nose. "So what now?"
"Mushrooms. Aborted Entoloma. Thirty."
"That's half a day."
"I'll brew sweet water instead."
"With fruit?" Alvis perks up slightly.
"Yes."
Alvis grins. "Deal."
He turns for the door, but Floris catches his shoulder before he can leave.
"If I'm gone, leave them in storage."
Alvis nods once.
"And stay out of the animal room."
Alvis throws his hands up. "That was one time."
"That snake nearly killed you."
"It didn't."
"It easily could have." Floris's tone remains even.
Alvis studies him for a moment. "You don't have to be serious all the time."
Floris meets his gaze above the scarf. "Yes," he says quietly. "I do."
Silence lingers.
Alvis shakes his head. "You're going to forget how to laugh someday."
Floris turns back to his journal. "And you're going to wish you'd listened."
Alvis stares at him a moment longer, then claps him lightly on the arm before heading downstairs.
Evening settles over Two Creeks.
Beyond the canopy, the sky burns orange before fading into violet and then dark. The last light slips between branches and disappears.
Alvis returns to his cabin and kicks the mud from his boots at the door. He sets a small pot over the fire and feeds it a handful of dry kindling. While it begins to simmer, he cleans his bow, running a cloth along the curve of dark oak. He sharpens his knife next, slow and steady, then counts his arrows before placing them back in their quiver.
Afterward, he unbuckles his leather chest piece and lays it across his knees. The straps are stiff with dried swamp water. He works oil into the seams with his thumb, checking each rivet and stitch the way Mr. Hudson taught him. A loose thread near the shoulder earns a quiet grunt. He threads a needle and fixes it without thinking. When he's done, he flexes the leather once, satisfied, and sets it beside the door where he can reach it quickly.
Outside, the swamp hums.
It always hums— insects, distant water, something shifting far beyond sight.
He eats beside the fire, satisfied. It has been a good hunt. Floris will have his aloe. Sweet water will follow. Tomorrow will look much like today.
An ordinary night. The flames crackle softly.
Beyond the tree line, reeds bend. Not from wind. Something moves through them—slow, deliberate, parting the water without haste.
Alvis doesn't hear it.
Inside, the fire pops and settles. Outside, the swamp keeps its secrets.
And the night deepens.