The weeks of convalescence were a peculiar torture for Arrion. The imperial garrison was a constant, clanking presence, their patrols a mockery of the true danger. He moved through the longhouse and the village like a ghost in his own life, the weight of Nightshade at his hip a constant reminder of a war on pause. His body healed, the last of the stiffness burning away under relentless exercise, until he moved with his old, predatory grace, the scars on his chest and ribs just pale, silvery maps of his survival.
The night he chose was perfect. A howling gale swept down from the mountains, driving needles of ice before it. The imperial sentries were huddled in guardhouses, their watch reduced to miserable, cursory glances into the blinding snow. Arrion, clad in furs over his black leather armor, became just another shadow in the storm.
He moved through the Whispering Weald like a memory. The blizzard muted all sound, but he needed no trail; the pull towards the glade was a physical ache in his spirit. When he found it, the standing stones were shrouded in white hummocks, the shattered oak a frozen, skeletal giant. The blood was long gone, washed away or buried.
And there, nestled against the roots of the great felled tree as if placed with care, was his purple-wood bow. It was unbroken, untouched by weather or beast. But it was not alone.
Beside it, lying across the riser like an offering, was a tusk. It was not ivory, but a shaft of petrified wood and hardened moss, longer than his forearm and thick as his wrist, tapering to a point of gleaming, obsidian-like stone. It hummed with a low, earthy power. The Verdant King's companion, the root-beast, had left a piece of itself.
Arrion knelt in the snow, his breath pluming. He understood. He lifted the bow, feeling its familiar balance. Then he lifted the tusk. At its base, where it would have met the jaw, the petrified grain seemed to shift and wriggle, as if seeking union. He needed no tools, no forge. He pressed the base of the tusk against the belly of the bow's upper limb.
The wood *awoke*. Thin, questing roots, vibrant and green despite the frozen world, sprouted from the purple oak. They snaked around the tusk, weaving into its stony surface, grafting it to the bow in an unbreakable, living bond. The bow's curve deepened slightly, its pull weight increasing to a mighty, god-like draw. The tusk now served as a built-in, monstrous blade at the top limb, and the obsidian tip glittered with a hungry light. It was no longer just a bow. It was a weapon of the deep wood, a hybrid of Arrion's soul and the forest's might.[1]
He shouldered it, the new weight perfect, and turned to leave. As he did, he saw the roots of the surrounding trees had thickened, braiding themselves into a protective wall around the glade's edge. A silent, vegetative fortification. The King was still watching.
On his way back, the storm eased to a whisper. He heard the deep, discontented rumble of a winter-starved giant bear before he saw it, a shaggy mound of fury standing on its hind legs, eight feet tall and smelling of blood and hunger. It charged.
Arrion did not reach for Nightshade. He nocked an iron-headed arrow to the string of his transformed bow. Drawing it required the full, terrifying might of his shoulders and back, a strain that sang through his healed ribs. The bear was ten paces away when he loosed.
The sound was different. Not a *thrum*, but a deep, resonant ***WHOOM*** that shook the snow from nearby branches. The arrow flew with impossible speed and force. It struck the bear in the centre of its chest and did not stop. It punched clean through the beast, heart and spine, and buried itself in a tree trunk twenty yards beyond with a sound like a splitting log. The bear dropped, dead before it hit the snow, a single, clean hole through its core.
Arrion stared, then at his bow. The tusk gleamed. He retrieved his arrow—miraculously unbroken—and, with effort, hauled the massive carcass onto a drag-sled of lashed branches. It would feed the village for weeks.
His return at dawn, dragging a giant bear through the melting blizzard, was impossible to hide. The imperial captain intercepted him at the gate, his eyes narrow.
"A solitary hunt? In that weather? Against *that*?" the captain asked, gesturing at the colossal bear.
Arrion met his gaze, his own grey eyes flat. "The forest is quieting. The beast tides… they seem to be resolving. This one was desperate. Alone." He hefted the bear's head. "A sign the great packs have moved on, or turned on each other."
The captain was a soldier, not a woodsman. He saw the evidence: one dead bear, not a horde. He saw the formidable hunter who had killed it. The story was plausible. Over the next few days, scouts (accompanied by wary villagers) reported no fresh signs of large-scale beast movement. The "crisis" was appearing to pass.
A report was sent to Lord Martellon. The border prince, a practical man who saw the ongoing cost of maintaining a full garrison in a backwater village during winter, saw his opportunity. The beast tide was "resolving." The village was fortified. The expense was no longer justified.
His orders returned within the week. The garrison was to withdraw to Oakhaven immediately, before the deep snows fully set in. As a gesture of "continued support," they would leave behind their surplus weaponry—two dozen heavy spears and a cache of javelins. "In case of a renewed threat," the order read. The true reason was clear: they were heavy to transport and cheap to replace.
Arrion stood with Orryn and Borryn, watching the blue-cloaked soldiers march out the gate, their relief palpable. The imperial scrutiny was receding with the column.
As the last soldier vanished down the snowy road, a deep, collective silence settled over Hearthstone. It was not peace. It was the quiet of a held breath. The walls were built. The false threat had served its purpose and departed. The spears they left behind were a cold comfort.
Arrion ran a hand over the living wood and stony tusk of his reforged bow. The shield was gone. The serpent would know. The long, coiled wait was over. Winter had arrived, and with it, the true season of their trial.
[1] I know it seems lie an unnecessary upgrade but the deal with hewn bows is that its harder to increase draw weight so I had to magically enhance it for war. its purpose will be seen soon