Teshar slept badly.

  The night stayed quiet. No howls. No laughing in the dark. Still, he kept waking, the way you woke when you’d been running too long on too little.

  His right palm pulled every time he closed his hand. The scab from cord work had set hard. Beneath it, the memory of tension still sat in his muscles: bent wood, a cord humming, strength held back and waiting.

  Arulan’s words would not leave him. The further you throw, the further it reaches back.

  Teshar lay under hide and smoke and the shared breath of the shelter and tried to keep his thoughts small. He pressed his thumb into the scab until it hurt, then eased off. The river kept talking beyond the reeds.

  When he finally drifted, it was thin sleep. A neighbour shifted, and he woke. A child coughed, and he woke. The embers settled, and he woke.

  Before the sky had properly changed, a boot nudged his ribs.

  “Up.”

  Torek’s voice was low and flat. Torek didn’t waste volume on boys.

  Kelon was already moving, cloak gathered, stepping over limbs without treading on anyone. Kelon woke like he expected the world to bite if he hesitated.

  Naro groaned on purpose, loud enough to make it a performance, as if he could turn being dragged out into a joke instead of a summons.

  Teshar sat up slowly. Yesterday still lived in his shoulders. His palms stung where fibre had bitten. The scab on his right hand pulled again as he pushed himself upright.

  He followed.

  Outside, the cold sat in a bowl over the camp. Frost threaded the grass. Smoke rose straight up from the central fire, pale and steady, as if the wind had decided to behave for once.

  The thorn ring held the shelters close, ugly and stubborn. Children slept in knots. A baby made a small sound and was hushed back down.

  Torek stood by the fire with his spear and looked at the three of them the way he looked at gear before a long walk: checking for weak straps.

  Arulan sat on his stone, staff across his knees, eyes already awake. His gaze travelled over Kelon’s steadiness, Naro’s twitchy pride, Teshar’s hands. It paused on Teshar’s palm for a half-heartbeat, then moved on.

  Siramae crouched by a small pile of ash and herbs, tying a wrap without looking up. “Don’t come back empty if you can help it.”

  Naro lifted his chin. “We won’t.”

  Siramae looked up then, eyes flat as river stone. “That’s not a promise you make with your mouth,” she said. “That’s a promise you make with your hands.”

  Naro shut his mouth.

  Torek jerked his head towards the reed line. “Move.”

  They moved.

  No ceremony. No speeches. Boots and bare feet crunching through frost-stiff grass, the river’s hush at their side.

  Teshar took the middle without choosing it. Kelon ahead, reading the ground. Naro behind, trying to look like he wasn’t being judged.

  The marsh sat where the river widened and slowed, reeds thick enough to hide small lives—and larger teeth. Pools lay still and dark. Mud waited to take your foot if you stepped wrong.

  Torek stopped at the edge and turned. “Small game,” he said. “Not every day is deer. Sometimes you live on what fits in your hands.”

  He handed each of them a throwing stick. Short, heavy, balanced. Notched where fingers would grip.

  Teshar took his and felt its honesty. No clever parts. Just weight and practice.

  Torek’s eyes pinned Naro. “You throw once,” he said. “Then you throw again. And again. Until your arm stops lying.”

  Naro’s mouth twitched. “I know how to throw.”

  Torek stepped closer, close enough to take the air from Naro’s bravado. “You know how to miss loudly,” he said. “Now learn to hit without making a show of it.”

  Kelon didn’t react. His eyes were already on the reed shadows.

  They spread out, not far. Torek kept them close enough that a shout would reach. Close enough that a wolf could reach, too.

  The marsh made every sound expensive. A snapped stem. A careless splash. Breathing too hard.

  Naro hated that kind of cost. He moved like he could outrun failure.

  Kelon moved as he belonged here, slow and spare.

  A bird shifted on a low branch.

  Kelon stopped.

  He waited, head tilted, stick held loose. The bird hopped once, careless, listening for nothing it understood.

  Kelon threw.

  Not wild. Not hurried. Just the motion, clean and finished.

  The stick snapped through the air and struck with a dull thud. Feathers burst. The bird fell into the reeds.

  Kelon went to it at once and ended it quickly. No show. No waste.

  Food.

  And proof. Kelon did not miss.

  Naro saw it. His jaw set, and his eyes went sharp, searching for his own target.

  He caught a flicker of movement low in the reeds—something small and quick. He threw.

  The stick struck water.

  The splash was loud enough that Torek’s head turned.

  The reeds went still. Whatever had been there was gone.

  Naro swore under his breath.

  Torek’s voice carried without rising. “Again.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “It moved,” Naro snapped.

  “So do you,” Torek said. “Again.”

  Naro threw again.

  This time, the stick clipped a reed, kicked sideways, and slapped into mud.

  Naro stood there with his shoulders tight, anger trying to make a mask over shame.

  Teshar forced his attention away from him. He needed his own food.

  In a shallow pool near a half-submerged log, a turtle surfaced. Its head lifted cautiously into the air that smelled of humans.

  Teshar lowered himself, slow, letting the mud take his weight. He slid one hand through the water as if it were weeds drifting.

  The turtle’s eyes tracked him.

  Then it tried to slip away.

  Teshar lunged. Mud gave. Water surged. The turtle kicked hard.

  His fingers closed around the shell.

  It fought, stubborn strength in small legs. Teshar held on and dragged it onto the bank. It thumped into wet grass, shell gleaming dark.

  A laugh tore out of him, and he swallowed it before it carried.

  He bound the legs quickly. A bound thing stayed for dinner.

  When he looked up, Torek was watching him.

  Not praising. Not scowling. Simply noting.

  Kelon stood a few paces away with the bird. Calm, as if it had cost him only time.

  Naro stood empty-handed.

  Torek walked to Naro and looked him over. “Nothing.”

  “It ran,” Naro said. The first word cracked.

  Torek didn’t blink. “Then you got nothing.”

  “I tried.”

  “Trying doesn’t feed children.”

  Naro’s chin lifted in reflex. “I’m not a child.”

  Torek leaned in a fraction. “Then stop acting like one.”

  Naro’s hands clenched. For a moment, it looked like he might turn his shame into teeth.

  He didn’t. He swallowed hard. His shoulders jumped once, like he was shoving something down inside himself.

  “I will do better,” he said through his teeth.

  Torek held his gaze another beat, then nodded once. “Good.”

  No comfort. No softening. Just the work waiting.

  They went back to camp with small catches.

  Kelon carried the bird by the neck, head dangling.

  Teshar carried the turtle against his hip, bound and heavy.

  Naro carried nothing.

  As they stepped into the clearing, heads lifted. Eyes went first to hands.

  Kelon’s bird earned a brief loosening in a few faces.

  The turtle earned a murmur—small meat, still meat.

  Then the looks slid to Naro. No one mocked him out loud. Hunger sat too close for that to feel safe.

  But the looks stayed on him longer than they should.

  Naro kept his face hard. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes for more than a blink.

  Teshar watched and felt a cold certainty settle in him. Shame stayed inside the ring. It grew there.

  That night, the turtle was cooked.

  The meat was tough and faintly sweet. They cracked bones under stones for scraps that tasted like effort. The shell was set aside for later use.

  Kelon’s bird went first to the youngest children because small meat was for small mouths.

  Naro got nothing extra.

  No one explained the rule. No one needed to.

  Naro sat at the edge of the firelight with his hands clenched in his lap, staring into the flames like he wanted them to forgive him.

  The fire didn’t forgive. It only burned.

  The next morning, the camp slid back into work. Hide scraping. Net mending. Children are shoved into usefulness. Men sharpening points and talking low about wind and deer trails.

  Teshar did his tasks without complaint. He kept his mouth shut and his hands busy. It was safer to look like everyone else.

  But he kept watching Naro.

  Naro paced near the edge of camp like a dog that had been kicked and was deciding whether to come back for warmth or bite the next hand that reached for it.

  Teshar approached carefully.

  Naro saw him and bristled at once. “Don’t.”

  Not a request. A shield.

  Teshar stopped a few steps away. “I’m not going to talk about the marsh.”

  Naro snorted. “You don’t have to. Everyone saw.”

  Teshar let the words sit without answering them. He tipped his head towards the river. “Come.”

  Naro’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “If you’re going to stomp around like a boar,” Teshar said, keeping it light, “you might as well stomp somewhere useful.”

  Anger rose in Naro’s face, quick. Then another hunger pulled him—hunger for a way back into the band’s respect.

  “Where?” he muttered.

  “The riverbank,” Teshar said. “Soft mud. Prints.”

  Naro stared at him, deciding. Then he spat to the side and jerked his chin. “Fine.”

  Kelon, repairing a spear binding nearby, rose without being asked and fell into step with them.

  They walked until the camp’s noises thinned behind reeds.

  Here, the river slid over stones with a steady hush. The bank held a stretch of mud where water had receded. Prints sat clearly in it.

  Teshar crouched and pointed at a hoof mark. “What is that?”

  Naro glanced once. “Deer.”

  “How many?”

  Naro’s pride wanted speed. He forced himself to look properly.

  “One,” he said. Then frowned. “No. Two.”

  Kelon crouched beside it and pointed at the overlap. “Two,” he said. “The second toe stepped on the first. Different weight.”

  Naro stared, silent.

  Teshar pointed farther down, where the mud was churned deeper. “And that?”

  “Boar,” Naro said fast, relieved.

  “Old?”

  Naro bent closer. He didn’t answer straight away this time. “Not old,” he admitted. “Edges are sharp.”

  Kelon gave a small nod. Approval without warmth.

  They moved along the bank, print by print. Deer. Rabbit. A bird’s three-toed scratch near the water. Marks of things that came to drink and left quickly.

  Naro’s face changed as he worked. The anger didn’t vanish, but it started doing a job.

  They stopped near a flattened patch of grass by the reeds. No clear print. Just stalks bent the wrong way and a shallow depression where something had pressed itself down.

  “What happened there?” Teshar asked.

  Naro stared. “Nothing.”

  Kelon reached out and touched a bent stalk, gently. “Something lay there,” he said. “It waited.”

  Naro’s eyes widened a fraction. “Wolves?”

  “Maybe,” Teshar said. “Or a cat. Or a man.”

  Naro frowned. “Men lie in grass?”

  “Good ones do,” Teshar said.

  Naro looked away, jaw set, as if the idea offended him because it made sense.

  After a moment, he said, roughly, “So if I learn this, I get food?”

  Teshar didn’t soften it. “You learn this so you stop coming back empty.”

  Naro’s mouth twitched—close to a smile, killed quickly. “I won’t come back empty again.”

  Teshar didn’t answer with a promise. Promises didn’t keep bellies full.

  He nodded once.

  By late afternoon, they were walking back with the river at their side. Smoke thickened as they neared the thorn ring. The murmurs of work rose.

  Near the firewood pile, Torek stood waiting, as if he’d known exactly when they would return.

  His gaze went to Naro first. “Where were you?”

  Naro lifted his chin. “Learning.”

  “From who?”

  Naro hesitated. That hesitation made the air feel sharper. Attention was a thing people traded here.

  Naro jerked his head towards Teshar. “From him.”

  Teshar kept his face blank.

  Torek’s eyes flicked to Kelon, then back to Teshar. “If you want to learn,” he said, “you learn from the land. Not from boys.”

  “The land doesn’t talk,” Naro snapped.

  Torek stepped closer. “That’s because you don’t listen.”

  He looked at all three of them then, voice flat. “Tomorrow you come with me.”

  Naro’s breathing quickened.

  Kelon didn’t react, but his shoulders set.

  Teshar’s stomach tightened—not at the walk, but at being seen walking out with them.

  Torek’s gaze pinned Teshar last. “If you want to be hunters,” he said, “you stop pretending.”

  He let the words sit.

  Then he added, quiet as a knife being drawn, “You start bleeding.”

  Torek turned away and went back into camp work as if he hadn’t just set their next day on fire.