When Lytavis announced she wanted to learn to hunt, Lucien blinked at her over his spectacles. She had spoken the words with such determination that he knew at once this was no passing fancy.
Within a fortnight, a tutor arrived at the Ariakan estate. His name was Athelan Moonshadow—an older Kal'dorei with short black hair greying at the temples, golden eyes that missed little, and the quiet presence of one who belonged more to the forest than the city. Lucien, who was no youth himself, remembered Athelan as old even when he was a child. His bow was worn smooth by centuries of use, the grip darkened by generations of touch, its string humming faintly when his hand brushed it.
Their first lesson took them beneath the tall pines that bordered the estate. The air was sharp with resin; shafts of late sun turned the dust motes to drifting sparks. Skye circled overhead, cawing as though claiming the forest for herself, while Ginger trotted faithfully at Lytavis's heels, nose to the ground, tail waving like a banner.
"Hunting is more than string and arrow," Athelan told her, his voice low and measured, pitched as if the trees themselves must overhear. "It is listening. Watching. Breathing with the forest itself."
He lifted a pinch of dry leaves, letting them scatter to show the wind's path. He slowed her steps, rolling heel to toe so the earth barely marked her tread. He pointed out the small stories others overlooked: a bent stem, a pawprint softened by rain, the faint ruffle of brush that betrayed hidden life.
Lytavis tried. Earnestly. But her arrows flew wide, her breath too loud, her pace too quick. Each shaft thunked into the soil or rattled uselessly against bark. Skye croaked with what sounded suspiciously like laughter, while Ginger sniffed the fallen arrows with solemn disapproval.
Athelan only chuckled, lines deepening at the corners of his golden eyes. "No one strikes true on their first day. You will learn. What matters is that you listen."
As the light grew long, he strung his own bow. The twang of the string was like a note plucked from the world itself; the arrows flew swift and certain. Two rabbits fell cleanly to his shots. He handed them to Lytavis with grave ceremony, as though passing down more than fur and flesh.
"Every arrow takes a life," he said, steady gaze holding hers. "If you would eat, you must first learn gratitude. Kneel. Place your hand on the fur. Speak thanks."
Her knees pressed into pine needles. She laid her small palm against the still-warm flank. Her throat tightened, but her voice did not falter:
"Thank you, majestic one. May your spirit be embraced by Elune, knowing that you have served your purpose."
The forest hushed—as if it had paused to listen. Even Skye fell silent on her branch. Athelan bowed his head once, satisfied. "Good. Never forget that part."
Then he showed her how to field dress the rabbits. His hands were steady as he guided hers—where to place the blade, how to keep the cut clean, which parts to set aside, which to keep. The smell was sharp, the work messy, and her stomach lurched once—but she did not flinch. She swallowed, steeled herself, and listened.
By dusk, they returned to the Ariakan estate. Zoya looked up from her garden, dirt on her fingers, eyes widening in mild surprise. Lucien lifted his head from his book, brows raised high.
"Rabbits for the table," Athelan said simply.
Lytavis stood beside him, dirt on her knees, quiver awkward at her hip, hair tangled with needles, eyes alight with pride. She had not struck a single target, but she had listened, she had learned, and she had spoken her first words of thanks to the wild.
That night, the rabbits simmered in a pot over the kitchen hearth, filling the villa with the scent of herbs and broth. Ginger curled contentedly by the fire, tail twitching in her dreams, while Skye hopped along the mantel, occasionally pecking at shadows as if she too wished to share in the triumph.
Zoya ladled stew into bowls, her hands gentle, her eyes soft as she set one before her daughter. "You remembered to speak the thanks?" she asked quietly, as if it mattered more than the meat itself.
Lytavis nodded, pride straightening her small shoulders. "I remembered."
Lucien studied her from across the table, spectacles glinting in the firelight. "Not a single mark on the target, and yet you come home with food for the pot." His lips curved, half a smile, half a puzzle. "Perhaps the bow is not the lesson after all."
Athelan placed his hand on her shoulder, voice calm but firm. "The bow is the path to the lesson. Reverence is the lesson itself."
Zoya reached across, brushing a curl back from Lytavis's cheek. "And she learned it well."
The girl ducked her head, cheeks flushed, but her smile betrayed her pride. The broth was rich, the bread warm, and for the first time she felt the weight of a hunter's meal settle in her hands—earned, not given.
The fire popped. Outside, the wind shifted in the pines. And in the quiet between one breath and the next, the Ariakan family understood: this was the first step of many.
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
Today my daughter returned from the forest with dirt on her knees, needles in her hair, and reverence in her voice. She did not strike a single target, yet she came home bearing food, and with words older than arrows upon her lips.
She thanked the rabbits. With sincerity. With gravity. I watched her bow her head, and for a moment I thought the forest itself had leaned closer to hear.
The bow may shape her hands, but it is gratitude that shapes her heart. And in that, I find myself less a teacher than a witness.