Weeks bled into the frozen ridge, measured no longer by clumsy stumbles and bruised ribs, but by the clean, fluid snap of steel and the silent coordination of the dual guard. Through relentless repetition under the biting mountain gales, Ronan had clawed his way past the raw, fumbling stage of a novice, mastering the fundamentals of the long-short system until his movements felt second nature.
The spar ended not with a clash of iron, but with Mordren lowering his blade and wiping a streak of frost-melt from his cheek. The dark elf studied the boy for a long moment, noting the steady breath, the grounded stance, and the complete absence of panic.
"Enough for today," Mordren rasped, his voice cutting through the wind. "Go fetch your bow."
Ronan blinked, lowering Fang and Sting back into their sheaths. He turned toward the cabin and returned a moment later carrying a long, unadorned length of seasoned yew, strung with twisted gut. It was his first attempt at crafting a bow, carved from a wind-warped bough and scraped down with a knife over countless sleepless nights. To his critical eye, the tiller was slightly uneven, and the grip lacked the refined finish of a master fletcher’s work.
Mordren reached out, his long, pale fingers taking the weapon from Ronan’s hands.
The dark elf turned the bow over in the pale winter light, his dark eyes tracing the grain of the wood, testing the flex of the limbs, and running a calloused thumb across the notched tips. A rare, approving glint flickered in his obsidian gaze.
"The wood is well-seasoned," Mordren noted quietly, his tone devoid of the usual mocking edge. "The draw is clean. For a first attempt out of a crude knife and stubbornness, it is more than passable. It will kill."
He handed the bow back, his expression turning sharp and purposeful.
"I'll teach you how to stalk a prey," Mordren said.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Ronan gripped the bow tighter, his brow furrowing. "To hunt?"
"No," Mordren corrected sharply, his dark eyes narrowing like a blade catching the light. "Stalking. Those are two different things. A hunt is the intent to kill. Stalking is the study and preparation before the hunt."
The dark elf took a slow step closer, his voice dropping into a low, measured cadence that commanded absolute attention.
"A hunter thinks only of the blow," Mordren instructed, his pale fingers tracing the cold air between them. "He looks at a deer, a wolf, or an armed patrol, and his mind races straight to the string, the shaft, and the red spray on the snow. That premature hunger, that bloodlust, leaks out before the steel ever leaves the sheath. The moment you decide how to kill a thing, your intent hardens into a weapon, and your blood becomes loud to anything that shares the forest with you. Stalking is the razor-sharp focus of the hunt, stripped of the intent to kill. You carry the absolute discipline, but you leave the bloodlust behind until the exact second the trap closes."
Mordren paused, letting the harsh mountain wind fill the silence before he continued.
"It is becoming a ghost before you ever draw a breath," Mordren said. "You learn the rhythm of your target's heartbeat before you care where his armor is weak. You map the terrain until the stone and shadow hide you as thoroughly as they hide the dead. You do not chase prey, Ronan. You let the world absorb you until your target walks right into a trap he never knew was laid."
Mordren abruptly caught himself mid-thought, his pale jaw tightening. A flicker of uncharacteristic discomfort crossed his obsidian eyes as he realized he had just spent precious breath playing the philosopher. He snapped his mouth shut, a harsh, dismissive scowl instantly washing over his features to bury the momentary lapse in stoicism.
"Enough talk," Mordren barked, his voice instantly reverting to its abrasive, gravelly edge as he turned away to hide a sudden, quiet irritation at his own verbosity. "Save the poetry for when you're bleeding out in a ditch."
Before stepping out into the grey wilderness, Mordren walked over to the stone hearth inside the cabin. From a hidden fold in his tunic, he pulled out a scrap of parchment and a charcoal stub, scratching a few jagged, economical lines of dark-elf script. With practiced silence, he slid the message deep into a secret niche behind the blackened hearthstones, left behind for old Fergus whenever the ranger finally emerged from the sinkholes.
Mordren turned back to the door, pulling his heavy grey cloak tightly across his shoulders.
"Come," he muttered, stepping out into the biting wind. "Let's see if your feet make as much noise as your mind."