Archaic Era, Year 1289

Talon POV

Cool green shadows blended and overlapped, cast by the ancient trees all around me that would dwarf even the tallest and broadest men of my village. Soft moss cushioned my feet and silenced any noise I made. Clear water streams wove between swampy, mossy, stagnant puddles. The Deep Forest. It had many dangers, but ease of hunting was not one of them. At least, not for me. Hidden within the tangled undergrowth, I spied my quarry again. I silently, slowly nocked an arrow and drew it back. A lazy breeze stirred the undergrowth’s leaves slightly, but did not disturb my prey as it drank from a flowing stream. The juvenile phoenix, about the size of a swan, sat ignorant and unaware. Perfect.

By the time the phoenix noticed anything was wrong, it was much too late. The arrow pierced its neck. Futilely, it flailed its wings for a few moments, before its feathers began sparking. Flashes of light flickered, then it exploded in a blinding conflagration. By the time I could look again, it was gone. A hazy smoke trail showed me where it fled. As coveted as phoenixes were, there was a reason not even the greatest of hunters could successfully kill one, even if they managed to track one.

I was immensely ambitious, having chosen to hunt a phoenix for my Weaponsrite.

It was extremely common for a would-be warrior to hunt a monster before they could be properly initiated. A sort of rite-of-passage. Most would hunt thunderprongs or grasswurms. Perhaps, if they were especially ambitious, they’d find a night wolf or seed-wasp. Only someone particularly confident, or particularly foolish, would do as I had done.

By now I had been tracking this phoenix for a few weeks, and took my time in catching up to it again. Its trail was easy enough to follow, even a few days later, and it had no natural predators. The sound of a babbling brook filled my ears as I finally caught up again. I crouched behind one of the enormous tree roots to catch a glimpse.

Confident it had killed or escaped me, it had stopped to take a drink in a nearby stream. I hesitated, one hand hovering over my hip-quiver.

I could finish it now. For real, this time. Stop playing around and return to the village. I’m sure most of the other boys would be returning around now, but something stayed my hand.

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…No. What the Hell am I thinking. I can’t stay here forever. I stiffly grabbed an arrow and drew back my bowstring, finally returning my focus to the bird. And that’s when I heard it—singing.

I was not alone.

Adrenaline jolted through me as I feared one of the other boys on his Weaponsrite might also be hunting my quarry, but I quickly calmed myself as I heard magic in the song, and saw the tell-tale golden light under the brook’s surface. Singing was…well. If it wasn’t an epic legend being sung, it was usually the sort of channeling parents used to calm babies. Using it in the middle of hunting was…a bizarre choice. Was this person trying to sing his quarry to sleep? Pah, only a Greshan would be so soft.

When the boy came into my view, it confirmed my theory. His features were certainly Greshan. Angrans had a sort of hunger and intensity to them—all sharp angles and sharp eyes, shadowed by black hair. We kept the sun off our faces and the dust from our eyes with heavy cloaks and leather armor, our clothes dyed red to make drying blood less noticeable. The boy had copied our example, if his red skirt was anything to go by, but it was like comparing a hunting hound to a pampered lapdog.

I’d heard Greshan skin tones came in a diverse range, and his was olive-hued, likely a farmer of some sort. Someone who’d spent his whole life hiding behind Gresha’s famed walls, instead of fighting real battles and getting experience. His soft, chubby body and the lack of scars on his exposed flesh backed up my assumption. His light brown hair, like most Greshans, was kept wavy, but unlike most it was cut short, shorter than mine. I wondered if he’d lost a duel recently, but it was more likely Gresha just kept different traditions surrounding their hair. Everything about the boy just seemed softer and lighter, from the shape of his face to his dumb, wide hazel eyes.

Had it been another Angran boy, I would’ve attacked him immediately for daring to steal my prey, but the Greshan boy left me absolutely dumbfounded. I could only watch as, humming, he slowly waded through the stream and approached the phoenix. I waited for it to startle and take off again, but the moment never came. Somehow, his song kept it calm enough to stay near the stream as he drew closer and closer. I held my breath, curiosity gripped me. I needed to see if his plan would work or not.

In one motion his uncalloused hands shot out, wrapping around the phoenix’s neck and dragging it under the water. Its wings flapped and thrashed, as my mouth dropped open. This was actually a rather clever plan, with a very high chance of working. Could he actually succeed…!?

One flailing wing struck the boy in the jaw, by pure chance. The boy stumbled, slipping and falling backwards into the stream, and gave the phoenix just the opening it needed to spread its wings and escape.

Wasting no more time, I drew and fired in a practiced motion. A direct hit. The phoenix fell limp to the forest ground. I shook my head in disappointment as I approached to pick up my prey.

I don’t know what I had expected.