"Wedge, are you seeing anything?" Hunter signaled to his familiar through their shared mental link.

  Wedge did not deign to answer with anything other than a wave of annoyed dissatisfaction. He was mad at Hunter for splitting him from his twin—though whether it was for a real reason or just sheer capriciousness, Hunter couldn’t say.

  They were still close enough to the cabin for the link to work just fine. The only reason the two ravens had stopped their constant chattering was because Biggs, too, was mad at Hunter. Which, of course, made absolutely no sense.

  Dealing with the ravens’ ire would have to wait; for now, he had other concerns.

  Hunter had figured it would be wise to get into position ahead of time. As the sun began to dip behind the horizon, he grabbed his bow and quiver, told Biggs and Fyodor to stay put, and followed Wedge toward the spot they’d scouted earlier.

  Sneaking through the underbrush without spooking the rabbits likely nesting nearby was no easy task, but he managed well enough—probably thanks to the effects of Rite of the Hunt and his Pathfinder ability. He found a tree with a clear view overlooking a bend in the stream, thick-trunked and with plenty of cover and sturdy branches. After a careful climb, he settled onto one that looked strong enough to hold his weight, about a dozen feet above the ground. From there, he had as solid a vantage point as he could hope for.

  Wedge perched on a tree across the stream, part lookout, part sulk. He was far enough from Hunter's own perch to keep a wide field of view, but also, Hunter suspected, to make a point.

  And thus began the waiting game.

  Hunter had been waiting for the better part of an hour, bow and arrow in hand, when the first rabbit emerged from the underbrush. Wedge spotted it first and called his attention to it, and the jolt of excitement was so sudden, so powerful, that he nearly loosed the arrow on instinct.

  A closer look at the critter revealed it wasn’t the one he was after, not by any measure. This one was a young female, much smaller than he expected his quarry to be. The Rite of the Hunt confirmed it as well; there was no flicker of recognition, no tug on the bond. Just another rabbit, unaware it had just had a brief brush with death.

  More time passed. As the day slowly gave way to dusk’s twilight, more rabbits emerged from their hiding places, hungry, thirsty, but above all, timid. None of them was his quarry. It wasn’t the boldest among the rabbits that tended to grow old and large, Hunter supposed.

  The good news was, he was almost certain he was at the right spot. Biggs and Wedge had done a great job. His rite-sharpened senses could feel the rabbit’s presence woven into the surroundings, faint but familiar. Echoes of hiding, of grazing, of near-misses with death. The scent of caution lingered like a shadow on the evening breeze. Still, the rabbit was nowhere to be seen.

  It was nearly dark when Hunter felt the Rite of the Hunt flare to life. His Low-Light Vision had already kicked in, painting the world in soft silvery outlines—but even then, he almost missed it. Moments later, Wedge spotted it too. There it was: the largest rabbit they’d seen yet, cautiously sniffing the air as it inched its way out from the dense cover of the underbrush.

  Even more cautiously, Hunter nocked an arrow. His whole body had gone stiff from the long wait on his uncomfortable perch, muscles aching from staying still so long. If he made a mistake now, if he missed his shot, if he spooked the rabbit, he’d kick himself in the nads. Hard.

  Like he’d practiced so many times over the past week, he slipped into a state of near-absolute focus. In that moment, there was nothing else—just him, his arrow, and his quarry. There it was, right before him, each cautious step bringing the hunt closer to its climax.

  Someone shouted something urgent in his head over the mental link; Biggs, a warning. What was he saying? Hunter couldn’t make it out. He couldn’t spare the attention, not now.

  He drew back the drawstring, breath held, muscles taut—

  Something rustled and tore through the undergrowth like a wrecking ball, startling the rabbit. Something big. Just as Hunter was about to loose the arrow, the thicket behind his target exploded in a blur of russet fur and teeth.

  Fyodor.

  Hunter cursed under his breath, sending his arrow wide at the last possible moment to avoid accidentally hitting the direwolf. It vanished into the brush with a dull thwack, harmless, but his shot was ruined. So was his hunt; the rabbit had bolted, already lost into the undergrowth.

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  Overexcited, Fyodor tried to follow it, crashing through the brush in pursuit. Biggs and Wedge scrambled to salvage the situation, circling overhead and scanning the thicket, ready to unleash their witchfire at the first glimpse of their quarry. It was no use. The rabbit was gone.

  Hunter got down from his perch and headed back to the cabin, feeling defeated. A few minutes later, Fyodor trotted up beside him, tail wagging proudly, a dead rabbit dangling from his jaws. A different dead rabbit.

  "Good boy!" Hunter said, trying to sound proud, but the words came out flat. His heart just wasn’t in it. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to be mad at the direwolf either. From Fyodor’s point of view, he’d done everything right. He’d picked up on the fact that Hunter was trying to catch a rabbit, and he’d helped. Mission accomplished.

  He couldn’t blame Biggs, either. The raven had done his best to keep an eye on Fyodor, and when the direwolf finally grew tired of staying put, Biggs had even tried to warn Hunter before things got out of hand.

  All he could blame was his luck. If the timing had been just a little different, the hunt might have been a success. If he’d loosed the arrow a second earlier, if Fyodor had charged a second later…

  And if ifs and buts were candy and nuts, they'd all have a Merry Christmas. No use on dwelling it now.

  Back at the cabin, Hunter set his bow and quiver aside and collapsed onto his bedroll like a sack of potatoes, stretching out his still-stiff limbs and trying to ease the ache in his back. Fyodor plopped down beside him, still clutching his prize in his jaws, beaming with pride. Hunter couldn’t suppress a sigh. The whole thing would almost be funny, if it wasn’t so damn disheartening.

  If there was an upside to the fiasco, it was that Biggs and Wedge had apparently forgotten all about their grudge. Biggs had spent the walk back giving Fyodor a piece of his mind in the form of a nonstop barrage of angry caws—not that it had done anything to dull the mutt’s spirits in the slightest. Now, the two ravens were perched on the roof, sulking in silence.

  Aumir had given him two days to complete the hunt. That meant, even if he focused only on the best time windows—early morning and late afternoon—he technically still had three chances to get it right. That was, of course, provided that the rabbit didn't get the hell out of Dodge and move its business to another thicket.

  Hunter lay there for about half an hour, absent-mindedly running his fingers through Fyodor’s fur, then decided to call it a day. He’d grab a bite, get some sleep, hope for the best, and try again at dawn.

  ***

  By the time the sun's first rays broke through the dark, Hunter was back in position. He figured he might as well use the same perch as before; after all, it was Fyodor that had spooked the rabbit, not himself. For all he knew, the little bugger hadn't even spotted him.

  This time, he’d left the entire menagerie back at the cabin. Biggs and Wedge had been given strict instructions to warn him well in advance if the direwolf got it into his head to help again—though that seemed unlikely. Hunter had left Fyodor curled up in his corner, snoring merrily. Early mornings weren’t exactly his thing.

  Hunter would probably doze off himself, if standing still on that tree branch, bow in hand, weren’t so damn uncomfortable. He’d never imagined hunting could be so boring. There was no shortage of rabbits emerging from the underbrush to drink from the stream and nibble on the softer grass along its banks, but none of them was the one he was looking for.

  He stayed up there until the sun was well up in the sky. If his quarry was to show up, it would have already done so. Feeling defeated for the second time in less twelve hours, he got down from his perch and made his way back to the cabin, with nothing to show for his effort expect a couple increased in his Pathfinder ability. Not much, as consolations prizes went, but still better than nothing.

  With nothing pressing to do but wait for his new window of opportunity and ponder his approach, Hunter decided it might do him good to touch some actual grass—the real world kind. Splitting his waking hours between Elderpyre and the Happy Motel wasn't becoming any easier. If anything, his circadian rhythm and sleep patterns had been slowly but surely becoming progressively more unraveled. Most nights, he was lucky to get four hours of uninterrupted sleep. Some fresh air, sunlight, and exercise would probably go a long way.

  After grabbing a hefty second breakfast at the cafeteria and dodging Buggy along the way, Hunter dropped by Penny’s office. He’d been meaning to check on her; she hadn’t looked too well lately.

  He found her on the landline, sounding as sullen and surly as ever, which he supposed was a good sign. She gave him a suspicious look, waved him off without missing a beat, and he obliged.

  Working out for a couple of hours helped him limber up his stiff limbs and put a dent in his surplus of excess energy, but by midday, his mind had already wandered back to Elderpyre and his unfinished hunt. He tried to think of different ways to approach the whole thing—new tactics, alternate angles, anything—but came up empty. No matter how he turned it around in his head, he kept landing on the same plan he’d already tried. Anything else he could think of was either impractical, unrealistic, or both, especially given his very limited time and resources.

  Hunter logged back into Elderpyre sometime in the early afternoon, eager to find something else to keep his mind busy until sundown. He considered practicing his crafting skills, but gave up after barely half an hour. He couldn’t concentrate for the life of him.

  Instead, he opted for something simpler: storing and retrieving items from the Arsenal Bracer’s storage space. It required a certain degree of focus, but at least it was mindless, repetitive, and just engaging enough to keep his hands busy while his thoughts drifted. After a couple of hours, he’d managed to improve his Artifact Handling skill by three ranks, bringing it up to 9. He still couldn’t make things appear and disappear out of thin air like Fawkes could, but he was starting to get the hang of it. Sooner or later, he’d get there.

  As soon as the sun began dipping toward the horizon, Hunter got up, grabbed his bow and quiver, and set off for the stream. He planned to get into position early, back on his now-familiar tree branch. Hopefully, this time, his quarry would deign to make an appearance.

  How did the saying go again?

  Third time’s the charm.

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