They regrouped near the fallen buck, the scent of blood and grass thick in the air. Eiran stood beside his kill, calm as ever, his posture effortless even with the bow still in his hand.
Deren crouched beside the carcass, running a hand over the smooth coat, inspecting the entry wound where the arrow had hit just behind the shoulder.
"Well done," he said finally, his voice carrying something rare, praise.
Eiran gave a quiet nod, already cleaning his arrow with a cloth from his belt. There was no pride in his eyes, just practiced control, the mark of someone who had done this before and expected to do it again.
Then Deren turned.
Sylas felt the shift in the air before his father even opened his mouth.
"And you," Deren said, his gaze pinning Sylas in place like a spear through the ribs. "What was that?"
Sylas opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His throat was dry. His thoughts scattered.
"Your aim was sloppy," Deren continued. "Your release was rushed. If this had been a real test…"
"It was his first shot today," Nara said, stepping in with a breezy shrug. "Cut him some slack."
Deren's glare flicked toward her. "No one asked for your opinion."
She held up her hands, smirking as she stepped back. Behind Deren's back, she winked at Sylas.
It didn't help.
Sylas's fists clenched at his sides. The words burned inside him excuses, explanations but they wouldn't come. Not with Deren watching. Not with Eiran standing there, clean and capable.
Deren sighed and straightened, brushing his palms on his trousers. "You need to do better," he said flatly. "The gods don't reward failure."
The hunt dragged on.
The sun climbed higher, turning the golden plains into a shimmering, wavering sea. Sylas's tunic clung to his back with sweat. His legs ached. The straps of his quiver bit into his shoulders. But none of it weighed more than his father's words.
He tried. Gods, he tried.
He watched the wind, tracked movement in the grass, mirrored Eiran's posture, slowed his breath like Maren had taught him.
But it didn't help.
Another shot missed wide. Then another. One arrow struck low and scared off the herd entirely. Deren said nothing after that, not out loud, but the silence was worse. It spoke volumes.
Every glance felt like judgment. Every step sounded like failure.
By the time they reached a sparse grove of trees, Sylas was unraveling.
He broke off from the group slightly, scanning the tall grass for any movement, any sign that he could still do something.
Then, just ahead, he spotted it.
A flicker of motion. Fast, low to the ground. Fur flashing between the stalks. A rabbit, bounding toward a half-hidden burrow at the base of a tree root.
Sylas's pulse jumped.
He crouched instinctively, eyes locked on the animal's path. His hand went to his quiver then stopped.
No.
He wouldn't miss again.
Not this time.
Instead, he reached into his pack and pulled out the length of twine he'd tucked there. A small, practical coil. He'd brought it in case they needed to secure game or fix a broken strap.
Now, it was a lifeline.
Working quickly but carefully, he looped the twine into a snare and set it near the rabbit's likely path, tucking it beneath the grass and using a few scattered stones and bent twigs to guide the creature's movement.
It wasn't pretty. But it would work.
"What are you doing?" Eiran's voice came from behind him, curious, not accusatory.
Sylas didn't answer. His hands moved with quiet purpose, every nerve sharp with focus.
The rabbit edged closer, unaware.
Three steps.
Two.
The snare snapped tight.
Sylas lunged forward and grabbed it before it could squirm free. The rabbit kicked, panicked, then went still in his grip.
His chest heaved.
He stood slowly and turned toward the others, holding it aloft.
"I got it," he said, his voice tight but firm.
Deren walked over slowly, his expression unreadable. He stared at the rabbit in Sylas's hands for a long moment.
"You caught a rabbit," he said at last. "With a snare."
Sylas's throat was dry. "I thought—"
"You thought wrong," Deren snapped. "This isn't about tricks. Or shortcuts. This is about skill. Discipline. What you did was… lazy."
The pride that had started to bloom in Sylas's chest withered instantly.
Lazy.
The word echoed louder than the snap of the snare.
He looked down at the rabbit. Its body was still warm. Still real. Still something.
But Deren didn't see it that way.
Of course he didn't.
Eiran stepped forward and placed a hand on Sylas's shoulder. "It's still a catch," he said quietly. "Doesn't matter how he did it."
Deren's jaw flexed, but he didn't argue. He just turned and walked away.
"We're done here," he said curtly, already moving.
Sylas stood frozen for a moment, the rabbit dangling limply from his grip, the victory in it drained.
Then he followed, falling into step behind them.
The snare had worked. He'd done something right.
And it still wasn't enough.