The Silver Fox watches its prey to discover their vulnerabilities. Few predators are foolish enough to hunt it due to its penchant for setting traps.

A creature of deep cunning, the Silver Fox knows when to run, when to hide, and when to strike. They never attack without a plan, and conflict is almost always decided with the first blow. In the same family as the Five-Tail Dream Fox, they share a preternatural attention to detail, often appearing to predict the moves of their opponents when forced to fight…

Ren quickly learned why most people didn’t bother to practice cultivation without a teacher. For the hundredth time that day, his concentration split as he followed the pattern of Qi circulation described and diagrammed in the Silver Fox Meditation scroll. The energy snapped from the path he was trying to force it along—an intricate pattern of loops and lines through various parts of his brain, ears, eyes, nose, even his tongue, through his heart meridian, repeatedly through his dantian to power it. He was supposed to somehow maintain that cycling pattern while isolating his senses one by one and focusing on alternating small and broad detail. And he hadn’t even gotten to the meditation part. Half of the scroll was covered in seemingly random phrases ranging from esoteric to banal in nature.

…

The greatest weakness hides behind the loudest strength.

A shadow grabs the eye on sunny days.

…

Nonsense.

His skull ached and—he wiped his dripping nose, held the hand up in the light—his nose was bleeding now. It wouldn’t have surprised him if it was actually his brain that was bleeding. This couldn’t be safe, could it?

But if he could make some progress before meeting with his instructor tomorrow, he could start proving himself.

His eyes landed balefully on the Three Chamber Breathing Manual. As it turned out, the technique itself was only about a tenth of the book. The remaining pages were tightly packed with exposition, diagrams and charts. The manual demanded that he understand the theory of internal alchemy, Qi currents and Compression Theory, as well as mastering fine Qi control and sensitivity exercises before beginning to build his core. He might have ignored the suggestion if it hadn’t been for a rather graphic sketch of the aftermath from an aetheric rebound during a formation attempt. He liked his guts inside enough to take his time on that one.

Ren stood, wiping snow from the seat of his pants. The cold wasn’t so bad now that he was used to it. A cloud crossed overhead, casting its shadow wide, and he shivered. The sun had sunk farther than he’d expected. Time to grab dinner and… rest. He was the final remaining member of the pod so there wasn’t much else to do.

He left the woods and made for the battlements. A deep track was carved into the snow leading from the gate to Rattan. Footprints and wheel ruts packed down and refrozen to ice. A crew of workers chipped away at the slippery stuff, chucking bits to the side, revealing frozen earth beneath.

Inside, engineer trainees–under the guidance of their officers–led packs of workers, dispatching one or two at a time to accomplish some task or another in the process of dismantling the camp, assessing wood to see how much lumber would need to be scrapped for firewood and replaced the next season. But most of the recruits were gone. Nowhere could he see the starry-eyed looks of would be heroes. It was all cold efficiency, starched uniforms, swift orders.

The kitchen still cooked their tasty spiced stews, at least. He supposed that would be the last building to come down.

Red canvas walls, vibrant as blood, collapsed as he passed. That one was Captain Lurron’s command tent. It looked like he was heading to Rattan to join the rest of the Northern Company Command.

The one nice thing about an empty camp was that Ren could play his new flute unmolested without sneaking off to some chilly corner. Though he started with the Sapling Song of the Autumn Breeze, his fingers and heart fell into a new melody once again. Slow, melancholy, each note a lonely cry in the dark and the cold.

***

Head Forester Markens was a short man, only coming up to Ren’s nose. His frame was stout, but he moved easily enough. His blocky face, similar in shape to Gunney’s, was peppered with stubble that might have looked good enough if it hadn’t been so patchy and intermittent. Twigs and leaves stuck from his tunic, green moss stained his knees, and a gleaming scalp was about the cleanest thing about him. But Ren was a generous soul by nature. He didn’t care about any of that shallow stuff, especially after his time living on the streets. What he did care about was the fact that Forester Markens talked so damn quietly.

“As you can see,” Markens said, capping off his explanation of the role of a forester with words barely louder or more distinct than a dog’s flatulence, forcing his student to strain his ears, “We have a complicated job.”

“That’s why,” he said, quieter than the quietest summer breeze, “we have no time to waste. Follow me.”

The man bounded off from where they stood just outside the gates of camp and Ren stumbled into motion to follow. Markens kept up his loping gait all the way to Rattan, and his new apprentice, who was carrying a pack full of all his gear, bent over, sucking in wheezing breaths, when they arrived. If only the man would talk louder and run slower.

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They stopped by a warehouse where Markens adjusted Ren’s gear, putting some things into storage and requisitioning forester’s tools including a short recurve bow and quiver full of arrows, as well as a long, sharp knife and a hatchet that both hung from a belt. Next stop was a lengthy building—grey stone, like the rest of Rattan—on the same block. They entered, checked in, and went to the back. A shooting range.

“Let’s see what you can do,” said Markens. “You ever shoot before?”

“No sir.”

“Lets see what your gut teaches you.” The man selected an arrow with a rounded tip and handed it to Ren.

Ren thought back to his observations of the archer corps, lifted the bow, fixed the arrow’s notch to the string, setting the arrow on the side of the bow facing his body, pulled back. It didn’t quite feel right, so he released the tension slowly, keeping the arrow nocked. He adjusted his footing to be more in a line with the closest target, drew, aimed with shaking arms, and released. The string snapped forward, but he didn’t get a chance to see where the arrow went.

“Aziroth’s flaming ballsa-” Ren cut short his curse, biting his lip as pain blossomed on his forearm.

Markens muttered something incomprehensible.

“What?” Ren tried his best to keep the annoyance that the man was still mumbling from his voice.

“Decent instincts. At least you thought before you shot.” He then held up his own arm, revealing a leather armguard. “If you shoot right, you don’t need one of these, but they’ll save you a lot of pain while you’re learning or firing in a hurry.”

Ren turned to his pack where he’d dropped it and bent to look for his own arm guard.

“Oh, you don’t have one. A hunter shouldn’t be firing in a hurry. As long as you are using that bow with the lighter draw, you can think of the pain as a teacher.”

Ren finally remembered his arrow and looked to see how close to the bullseye he had hit. After a few moments of straining, he finally noticed a length of wood with a feathered end sitting on the ground to the side of the target. He deflated.

Markens took the bow from Ren, holding it out and drawing the empty string several times before loading an arrow. “Watch me, then try again.”

The forester drew smooth and slow, letting out a slow exhale as he came to full draw, then released. Ren watched the placement of his feet, his wide stance, the angle of his elbow and wrist, the way the bow tilted back toward him and his placement of the arrow resting on the knuckle of his bow hand—it was only then that Ren noticed the two gnarled nubs that had once been fingers on that hand. Markens placed his arrow on the outside of the bow rather than the inside. A deliberate and controlled release was followed by a thud and an arrow vibrating in the dead center of the target.

“Now you.”

Ren took the bow back and adjusted his stance and grip before loading the arrow. He emulated what he had seen, pausing to adjust along the way, backing off from a few draws that didn’t feel right. Taking his time. Finally, he drew, exhaling slowly, released. The arrow whipped out—and hit. It was only the very edge of the target, but a hit was a hit.

“Beast’s blood. I’m impressed. You’ve got the sense for it.” Markens offered a smile on that blocky face of his.

Ren smiled back.

***

They slept in bivvy’s out in the woods, moving camp every few days. Mornings were spent tracking, foraging, identifying prints and plants, gathering food for the evening. Markens kept a batch of his own spice mix, which rested safely in a pouch on his belt. That and the jar of lard were their two greatest treasures.

Ren learned how to place his feet softly and swim through undergrowth as he followed Markens on hunts. Learned to identify and harvest medicinal herbs. Learned to clean a squirrel, a rabbit, a deer. Learned to bleed them, butcher them. Learned to build traps and a smoking enclosure over coals—strong enough to suspend a deer from the roof. Learned how to keep his fingers warm. How important it was to eat fat to keep the chill at bay through the night.

Markens also had him practice repetitive pullups on branches, bent over rows with large rocks, all to strengthen his back and arms for a heavier bow. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like he was getting stronger faster than he should have been since he’d started using Melfina’s technique during physical training.

“That little thing is fine for small game, but if we stumble on a boar or a beast, you’re going to want something bigger.”

The man’s own bow was such a heavy draw that Ren couldn’t even pull it past half-way on their first day.

In the evenings, unless hunts ran long, Markens would set up padded targets on the trees at various distances and have Ren shoot them over and over with his training arrows. When one would break, they’d either repair it or salvage the tip and fletching to fashion a new one from wood they harvested.

The archery training started off structured. Ren would shoot at one target over and over, using each shot to adjust his aim. Once he was hitting consistent bulls-eyes, Markens put forth a new rule that he couldn’t shoot the same target more than once in a row. This was considerably harder. Soon after that came the rule that he couldn’t fire from the same position more than once.

They settled into a routine. Every week–or after a particularly fruitful hunt–they would go back into Rattan to drop off meat and switch out Ren’s bow for a slightly heavier one.

The sixth week, Ren was finally allowed to make his first kill.

The rabbit lept from the bushes when a gust knocked a deluge of snow from the needle-laden branches overhead. It was white, so white he wouldn’t have seen it, if not for the movement and the faint pink inside its ears. He raised his bow, nocked an arrow and waited a breath. The rabbit didn’t move. In time with another gust, he drew and loosed in one smooth motion, drawing another arrow and nocking it just in case as he approached.

White snow was dyed pink where the blood leaked out, white fur stained crimson where the arrow protruded from its little head. His hand shook and guts churned as he reached out.

“The law of the wild,” said Markens. “Honor your kill by appreciating it. They die so we may live.” His voice was still soft like a faint breeze, but out here Ren had come to understand why. Out here, even a whisper could break the musical silence of the forest.

Ren looked into lifeless brown eyes. A warm tear pooled and slid from his own. He killed not just so he could live, but for his family, for the hope of freedom, to prove himself. He swallowed his pain and remorse. This was something he’d have to get used to.

That night, as the rabbit sizzled over the fire, he couldn’t help but imagine what its life had been like. If it had other rabbit friends. How many years had it bounced around the forest, avoiding predators only for him to bring it all to an end the snap of a bowstring? But, tearing into the succulent meat, he couldn’t deny that no meal had ever tasted quite so sweet.