The clearing was quiet that morning, save for the gentle hum of the forest and the soft whistle of the wind threading through the trees. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in broken patches, spilling warmth over the mossy ground where Circe stood, bow in hand.
Beside her, Rowen squinted up at the target several paces away, his fingers fumbling with the string of his bow.
Hanging in front of them on a low, weathered tree branch was a painted wooden target.
"Relax your shoulders," Circe said gently, stepping closer to him. Her tone was calm and soothing. "You're too tense. You'll never hit the target if you treat the bow like it's going to bite you."
Rowen laughed nervously, his brown curls bouncing as he tried again.
"Now, pull the string back. Slowly."
Rowen obeyed, his arms trembling slightly as he drew the bowstring. The arrow wobbled, threatening to slip from his fingers. Then he released it, and it flew and landed harmlessly on the ground a few feet ahead.
