The sky was barely lightening as Agan followed his uncle, Tarek, through the narrow paths that wound past Murkrest’s huts. A thick mist clung to the ground, swirling around their ankles as they walked, and the morning air was cool and damp. The village was quiet behind them, the night’s stillness unbroken as they slipped into the forest, Agan’s excitement quickening with each step.

This was his first real hunting lesson, and he was determined not to make a fool of himself.

Tarek moved ahead of him, a dark figure blending with the dense shadows, his steps light and soundless. Agan tried to match his uncle’s pace, mimicking the way he placed each foot carefully, silently, but his own steps felt too loud, his footing uncertain on the damp, uneven ground. He glanced down, focusing on his feet, doing his best to adjust.

“Eyes up, Agan,” Tarek’s voice was a quiet murmur that cut through the silence. “You’ll lose sight of what’s in front of you if you’re too busy watching yourself.”

Agan straightened, nodding. The mist began to thin as they reached a shallow pool ringed by thick brush, and Tarek slowed, his gaze intent on the ground. Agan moved to his side, watching closely as his uncle knelt, running his fingers lightly over the mud.

“What do you see here?” Tarek asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Agan crouched beside him, squinting at the ground. At first, all he saw was a layer of dark mud, smudged and wet from the night’s rain. But then he spotted it—a faint, narrow line that cut across the mud, broken by shallow impressions spaced at uneven intervals. He traced it with his finger, following the line as it disappeared into the brush.

“Tracks?” he guessed, looking up at Tarek.

Tarek nodded, a hint of approval in his eyes. “Marsh hen. They pass through here most mornings. It’s a good place to set a few traps if you know how to make them.”

Agan’s heart quickened. Marsh hens were quick and sharp-eyed; catching one was no small feat, especially for a beginner. But Tarek’s calm, watchful gaze steadied him, and he nodded, eager to prove himself.

They knelt side by side, and Tarek took a few slender reeds from his pouch, his fingers moving with practiced ease as he bent and wove them into thin loops. Agan mimicked his movements, working to match his uncle’s swift, precise motions, though his fingers fumbled with the delicate reeds.

“Slow down,” Tarek murmured, tightening one of Agan’s loops. “If you rush, you’ll waste your efforts. Every movement should be steady, sure.”

Agan took a breath, forcing himself to go slower, to focus on each step. He shaped the loops more carefully this time, bending the reeds in a steady rhythm, and after a few tries, he felt the snare take shape in his hands.

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“Not bad,” Tarek said, inspecting his work. “But you’ll need to practice more. Traps are a hunter’s silent ally; if they’re weak, you might as well be empty-handed.”

They spent the next hour setting up traps along the marsh’s edge, placing them where Tarek guessed the birds would wander next. Tarek was patient, explaining each step, his voice low and measured as he showed Agan how to angle the traps, how to position them in the ground without disturbing the surrounding brush.

At last, when the snares were set, they found a spot nearby, hidden behind a stand of reeds, and settled in to wait. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and the faint scent of something green and sharp, a smell Agan knew only as part of this place, part of his home. He breathed it in, steadying himself, trying to ignore the itch in his legs, the urge to fidget.

“Uncle,” he whispered after a while, the quiet stretching long and heavy. “How long did it take you to learn all this?”

Tarek didn’t look at him, his gaze fixed on the traps in the distance. “Longer than I wanted,” he answered finally. “You’re always in a hurry to learn when you’re young. But hunting teaches you more than skill. It teaches patience—knowing when to move and when to be still.”

Agan thought about this, turning it over in his mind as he watched the water, the reeds swaying faintly in the breeze. Patience had never come easily to him. He wanted to move, to act, to understand things immediately. But here, with Tarek beside him, he forced himself to be still, to listen.

The first light of dawn began to warm the sky, casting a pale glow over the clearing, and Agan’s eyes sharpened as he caught a hint of movement. Just beyond the traps, a marsh hen emerged from the brush, its small, sleek body moving cautiously as it picked its way toward the water.

Agan felt his breath catch, his heart pounding as he watched it draw closer, closer still, until its foot slipped into one of his traps. The snare tightened around its leg, and the bird squawked, flapping its wings wildly as it tried to pull free.

Tarek moved swiftly, reaching out to grab the bird, his movements quick and steady. He held it gently, calming it with a soft touch, and looked at Agan, a faint smile breaking through his usual calm.

“See? This is what patience brings,” Tarek murmured. “But remember, this is just a beginning. To survive out here, you need more than patience. You need control.”

He placed the bird carefully in a small cloth bag, and they went back to their hiding place, waiting for more to come. Over the next hour, they caught a few more marsh hens, and with each one, Agan’s confidence grew. His hands moved with more surety, his steps quieter, more measured, as he collected the catches, placing them into Tarek’s bag.

The sun rose higher, casting the clearing in warm, golden light, and by the time they finished, Agan’s arms ached with the weight of their catch. But he hardly noticed, his mind buzzing with the thrill of it, the satisfaction that came from catching something with his own hands.

They made their way back toward Murkrest, Tarek silent beside him, though there was a quiet pride in his uncle’s gaze that Agan felt as surely as if he’d spoken it aloud.

When they reached the edge of the village, a few of the other hunters spotted them, nodding in greeting as they passed, their expressions a mix of approval and curiosity as they eyed the bag Tarek carried.

Agan straightened, lifting his chin a little higher, feeling the weight of their acknowledgment. He’d done it—he’d brought something back, something that mattered. And as he felt the others’ eyes on him, a faint, restless thrill stirred in his chest, a hunger that hadn’t been there before.

One trap, one bird—it was only a start. The feeling of it, the thrill… he was only just beginning.