Jack walked out of the city towards the nearest public forest with a plan to practise archery. Despite having little interest in archery, he was looking forward to some practice. In his past life, he’d spent a few months learning to use a bow to assassinate Greaves from a distance. His damaged right arm made using a bow painful; there had been no joy in learning to wield a bow.

  As he strolled with a bounce in his step through a large wildflower meadow towards the forest edge, he enjoyed the sounds of nature. Life was abundant around the city of Lundun. The meadow teemed with colourful butterflies, bees, and other flying insects; small birds darted through the air, snatching insects to feed their young.

  Jack smiled when a dragonfly landed on the tip of his white oak bow. Dad would be pulling out his pencils and sketchpad for this. Overwhelmed by the moment, he felt the urge to capture the image on paper, just like his father would.

  Forgetting all about archery practice, he sat on the grass and pulled from his pack a set of new pencils and a wad of paper. Scribe supplies he almost always carried. He rested his bow against his pack and waited, pencil in hand, hoping another dragonfly might land.

  A few minutes later, he was rewarded when a large blue dragonfly rested on the tip of his white oak bow. “That’s a beautiful image,” he murmured, while sketching the scene before the dragonfly resumed its hunt for smaller flying insects. Drawing its slender body, he got lost in his art as the winged predator shimmered in the sunlight, highlighting its deep sapphire and iridescent cobalt colours.

  Transfixed by the beauty of the small flying hunter, he couldn’t help but pen a short poem.

  The Blue Dance of a Summer Whisper

  In the quiet midday glow,

  a cobalt flicker dances—

  a slender whisper against the wide sky,

  glimmering with an ancient, secret art.

  You, delicate blue dragonfly,

  carry the poetry of transformation—

  a transient spirit that flirts with time,

  reminding us that beauty is brief yet eternal.

  Almost ninety minutes later, he was already on his fourth sketch, this time, a bumblebee collecting nectar and pollen from the wildflowers. As he finished and considered starting another poem, he heard a group of voices nearby, reminding him of his original task… archery practice.

  Jack packed away his scribe supplies and headed towards the treeline. “I can still get a couple of hours’ practise in,” convincing himself he hadn’t wasted his time.

  “Hey, buddy… hold up a minute,” a young male voice called out.

  Jack looked around, surprised that they were addressing him. Four teenagers, two boys and two girls, approached. He scanned the area to be sure they weren’t calling someone else. There were just the four young adventurers and him nearby.

  A teenage boy, outfitted in old leather armour that was a little too large for him, spoke first. “You want to join us to kill some goblins? You have a bow.” He pointed to Jack’s bow with his sword.

  Jack couldn’t help but notice the sword was poorly maintained, the blade was chipped and there was rust around the guard.

  “Ben! Don’t be so dumb,” Carol, their teenage healer, said. “He might not even be an archer.” Flicking Ben on the forehead, she elicited a reluctant “ow” from the young swordsman.

  The girl was right; many non-combat classes who practised archery did so as protection from goblins and bandits while travelling beyond the safer cities and towns.

  Why couldn’t I have met this group when I was training to kill Greaves? As a scribe with injuries and no combat skills, no adventurer group would invite him to their party.

  Undeterred, Ben continued, “He has a nice bow…” Peering closer at Jack’s weapon, he added, “And it’s covered in blood. He’s got to be an archer.” He nodded, convinced of his assumptions. He dug his sword into the grass and leaned on it.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Has he got no respect for his weapon? Jack wondered.

  “Sorry about him,” the other teenage girl said, pointing at Ben. “He’s a… means well.” Extending her hand, she introduced herself. “I’m Mary, Novice Mage. You’ve already met Ben, our swordsman; that’s Carol, our healer, and that’s Arthur, a talented spearman,” she said, glancing towards their healer and spearman as she shook Jack’s hand.

  At least she’s got some manners, Jack thought, appreciating the formal handshake. “I’m Jack. Your young friend is partially right…” He smiled at Ben. “I just took up archery, but I have no experience. This is my first day of training with a bow.” He’d decided to keep it vague and not confirm he had the archery class. “I haven’t even fired this bow yet; I bought it this morning.”

  Mary deflated upon hearing that Jack was new to archery. “We’re sorry to bother you. We were looking for a ranged specialist to join the team, but I’m sure you’ll want some practice before you join a group.”

  Jack nodded. She’s assuming I’m a Novice Archer. He’d read that most adventurers practised solo for a few weeks before even considering teaming up. It made sense to become accustomed to one’s dangerous skills before engaging in group fights where you could shoot someone in the back.

  “We’ll let you go on your way,” Mary said with a smile. “If you’re looking for a group in a few weeks, you can find us at the Adventurers Guild most days.” Then she turned to walk away.

  “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” Jack replied. “Oh, you wouldn’t know a good place nearby where I can practise?”

  Mary turned back. “Plenty of novices practise in a clearing about half a mile that way,” she said, pointing towards the forest. Pausing to look at her friends, she continued, “We’re heading that way now. We can show you.”

  Jack smiled. “That’ll be great. I don’t want to get lost and run into a band of goblins on my first day out,” he joked.

  All except Ben laughed along. The young swordsman took the comment seriously and explained why it was unlikely, “There aren’t many goblins left near the city. Too many newbies are hunting ‘em for silver.”

  Jack already knew this, but he nodded along.

  As they walked, they made small talk. The small party of adventurers were on their way to hunt goblins in the forest.

  “How many goblins have you killed?” Jack asked.

  “I’ve personally slain three of the evil monsters,” Ben replied, slicing the air with his sword as if reenacting one of the goblin culls.

  Jack acted impressed and glanced towards the others.

  Mary clarified their kill count. “As a team, we’ve dealt with five goblins. Ben landed the final blow on three of them, and one of those was caught in brambles.” She looked at Ben. “They were all team kills.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Ben replied. Then he asked Jack, “Why is your bow covered in blood?”

  That kid has no subtlety, Jack thought before responding, “No idea. It was like this when I bought it. I got a good deal.”

  “I wish I could find a good blood-covered sword,” Ben said. “All the good stuff is too expensive. How are we supposed to pay 3 gold for a sword when we only get 3 silvers for a goblin?” In annoyance, he kicked the head off a flower.

  Jack glanced at the teenager’s old sword. The handle was weathered, the blade had a few chips, and it looked like it wasn’t being kept sharp. There was even a hint of rust below the handle. He shook his head in disappointment. “If you put some time into repairing your weapon,” he advised, pointing to the sword Ben was using to cut the heads off of flowers, “it would last you until you became an Apprentice Swordsman.”

  Carol chuckled. “We’ve been telling him that for weeks, but Ben here insists he has to have a new sword.” She shook her head. “He’s an idiot.”

  Jack couldn’t help but nod in agreement. He is an idiot, he mused, glancing at Ben, who didn’t seem to mind being called an idiot. “Have you ever sharpened it with a whetstone? It would improve the blade’s cutting power.” He’d read about weapon maintenance in his past life and had spent many hours sharpening his own gear. That reminds me, I should buy a whetstone for my dagger. He gripped the hilt of his dagger as he spoke; it felt comforting.

  Ben shook his head. “I’m a swordsman, not a bloody blacksmith or a… what’s them people who work for posh knights called?”

  “You mean squires?” Mary asked.

  “Yeah, them,” Ben scoffed. “I’m not one of them.”

  “Well, it’s your loss if you fight with a blunt tool,” Jack replied with a chuckle. What a fool. Maybe a powerful noble with the knight class can get away with that attitude, but a commoner with no coin… He’d be damn lucky to be taken on as a knight’s squire; he’d be trained well. He shook his head at how dumb the boy was. I’m not sure if I want to be in a group with him, even if it might mean faster levelling.

  As he contemplated the teenage swordsman’s idiocy and recalled the old saying, ‘Bad workmen will never find a good tool’. Mary announced that they had arrived at their destination.

  “This is where plenty of novices practise,” Mary said, sweeping her hand to reveal a well-worn clearing in the forest. It resembled the aftermath of a small war; deep craters marred the forest floor, and dozens of trees lay felled, burned to ash, or chopped into splinters. “Just be careful not to stand too close to anyone reckless,” she warned, glancing at Ben.

  Jack had promised his mother that he would find a location where he wouldn’t hurt anyone. Yet, looking at the damaged clearing, he was more worried that he’d be the one hurt. “Thanks for guiding me here,” he said, smiling at Mary. “And good luck with your goblin hunt.”

  They parted ways.

  The Blue Dance of a Summer Whisper

  In the quiet midday glow,

  a cobalt flicker dances—

  a slender whisper against the wide sky,

  glimmering with an ancient, secret art.

  Wings, translucent as dew on morning leaves,

  trace fleeting patterns of light and shadow,

  each flutter a brushstroke in the endless canvas

  of summer’s warm, tender embrace.

  You, delicate blue dragonfly,

  carry the poetry of transformation—

  a transient spirit that flirts with time,

  reminding us that beauty is brief yet eternal.

  As you glide past blooming meadows

  and whisper across the mirrored stream,

  your flight sings a hymn of hope and wonder,

  an ode to nature’s wild, wondrous refrain.

  In your ephemeral arc,

  we find the grace of living freely,

  a gentle urging to cherish each sparkling moment

  before it, too, dissolves into the radiant day.