Dawn arrived softly in Tanna. A pale breeze slipped through the woven shelter walls, stirring reeds and lifting the faint scent of wet earth. Thin bars of gold filtered through the gaps in the branches, laying stripes of light across Toho’s sleeping form. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams, rising and falling like quiet sentries at post.

  Yotsino crouched beside him, holding a hollowed gourd filled with cold river water.

  “Toho… hey. Wake up.”

  No response.

  Yotsino tilted the gourd.

  The splash was immediate and merciless.

  Toho gasped, coughing violently as icy water drenched his face and collar. He shot upright, blinking furiously, hair plastered across his forehead.

  Yotsino stood with arms crossed, one eyebrow arched in mild amusement.

  “Here, sleep time ends before the sun rises.”

  Toho wiped water from his eyes, attempting dignity and failing. His clothes clung damply to his skin.

  Yotsino jerked his head toward the riverbank. “Come.”

  Toho rose stiffly. As he gathered himself, his hand brushed against the inside of his satchel. He paused.

  The small wood carving rested there—unfinished, rough, but deliberate. The promise he had made to Kenji before the storm of separation. His fingers lingered on it briefly. A faint, private smile touched his lips.

  ‘I will return.’

  He tucked it deeper and hurried after the boy.

  “Wait—hey, slow down!”

  When Toho stepped beyond the shelter’s threshold, the world opened.

  The river curved wide and gentle through a stretch of green so vivid it seemed painted by divine hand. Grass glowed gold beneath the rising sun. Smaller streams braided away from the main current like silver threads woven through fabric. Mist lingered low over the water, refracting light into soft prisms.

  Tall reeds swayed in disciplined rhythm along the banks. Wildflowers punctuated the meadow in quiet bursts of purple and white. Beyond, forested hills rose dark and immense against the brightening sky—vast, watchful, sovereign.

  A sharp cry pierced the morning.

  Toho looked up.

  An eagle wheeled overhead, wings vast and gold-tipped in the dawn. It circled once, twice, then banked sharply toward a rocky peak near the river bend.

  Toho had seen eagles before—distant specks in hostile skies—but never so close. Its shadow passed over him, fleeting yet immense.

  He stepped backward, startled, and caught his heel against a boulder. He nearly fell before regaining balance, letting out an embarrassed laugh.

  Yotsino glanced back. “You fight rivers but fear birds?”

  “To be clear,” Toho replied, brushing off his tunic, “I did not choose to fight the river.”

  They knelt at the water’s edge.

  Splash. Splash.

  Yotsino cupped water to rinse his mouth, then paused when his reflection rippled back at him. For a fleeting second he seemed puzzled by his own image—as though measuring himself against something unseen. ‘What is wrong with me, who is this guy even’

  Toho knelt beside him. Cold water ran down his chin as he washed his face. He stared into the river’s shifting surface, lost in thought.

  The silence between them stretched.

  Then Yotsino spoke.

  “Tell me, Toho… was it?”

  Toho lifted his gaze.

  He nodded once.

  “Where are you from?” Yotsino pressed.

  Toho hesitated. “All I remember… my land was very far from here.”

  The breeze swept across the meadow, carrying with it the scent of pine and distant earth.

  “When I was small,” Toho continued, voice quieter, “my parents died in a war raid.”

  The words hung between them like smoke after a volley.

  Yotsino flinched—subtle, but unmistakable.

  Toho noticed.

  “How did you survive?” Yotsino asked. His voice was no longer merely curious. It was searching.

  Toho’s lips curved into a small, tired smile.

  “I lived by faith. In God.”

  Yotsino’s brows drew together slightly. He repeated the unfamiliar phrase carefully.

  “Faith… in God.”

  The river murmured beside them. Somewhere overhead, the eagle cried—farther now, yet still present.

  Toho rose slowly, eyes lifting toward the opening sky.

  “I was never left alone,” he said. “Even at the brink of death. There was always… a way out.”

  The eagle answered.

  It descended in a wide, silent arc and settled on the jagged rock above the river. Wings folded with deliberate grace. Its head turned—sharp gaze locking on them both.

  Toho drew a deep breath. The tightness in his chest loosened—not gone, but lighter.

  Yotsino stood beside him. “I believe you, Toho.” Toho turned, startled. “Really?”

  Yotsino nodded once. Serious. Then a small grin broke through. “But if I’m keeping you here, you help. One way or another.”

  Toho laughed—quiet, unguarded, real. “Deal.”

  Beauty did not cancel danger here. It hid it.

  Yotsino gestured toward a narrow path that hugged the riverbank, half-hidden by tall reeds.

  “Come. Work before noon.”

  “What kind?” Toho asked, adjusting the satchel strap across his shoulder.

  “You’ll see.”

  They started walking.

  Grass brushed cool and damp against their legs. The river ran steady beside them, indifferent to borders or banners. Yet beyond the forested hills lay garrisons, scouts, trees scarred with emblems Toho had seen only yesterday.

  Above, the eagle launched yet another time. Wings cut clean through the morning air. It banked eastward—toward deeper land.

  A breeze rose—subtle, persistent.

  And faint—so faint it might have been imagination—came the distant echo of a drum.

  Toho did not stop walking.

  But he heard it.

  Mid-morning light filtered through the high canopy of Tanna’s southern forests, turning the air into drifting ribbons of gold. Pine resin and damp loam hung on the breeze — the scent of a land older than memory.

  Yotsino moved first.

  His feet found earth between twigs. His weight shifted with military precision, each step measured as though he advanced across contested ground. Toho followed, trying to match the cadence. Dry leaves snapped under his soles.

  Yotsino glanced back once — an arched brow, silent reprimand.

  Toho steadied his breathing. He moves like he’s hunted here a hundred times… or been hunted.

  They advanced beneath thick trunks and low branches, undergrowth forming natural cover of fern and moss. Every few strides Yotsino paused, fist raised. He listened — not just for sound, but for its absence. Then a subtle beckon, and Toho closed the distance.

  The forest thickened. Moss swallowed footsteps. Ferns brushed knees like cautious hands. Yotsino’s gaze stayed low — on broken twigs, compressed soil, faint hoof impressions. He did not waste time on the canopy. This was tracker discipline: read the ledger written in earth.

  A clenched fist.

  Toho froze.

  They crouched behind a fallen log draped in vine and shadow. Before them lay a natural stone shelf overlooking a bowl-shaped clearing ringed by pine and pale birch. Sunlight poured into the bowl in a luminous pool, turning grass emerald-bright. A narrow stream wound through the center, flashing like drawn steel. Wildflowers flecked the edges in quiet purples and whites. The air inside hung still and consecrated.

  Yotsino leaned close. “You see them?”

  Toho narrowed his eyes. At first — only wind-shaken grass.

  “See what?”

  Two fingers extended, deliberate.

  Toho’s vision adjusted.

  Stocky shapes. Short legs. Bristled backs glinting bronze in sunlight. Snouts rooting through turf with methodical focus.

  “A pigmy—” Toho whispered, fist meeting palm.

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  Yotsino shook his head. “No. A boar.” His voice dropped lower. “I’ve searched for this herd for months.”

  A sharp avian cry rang through the trees.

  Yotsino flinched. His shoulder struck a low branch. Leaves rasped.

  The herd froze.

  Ears twitched. Heads lifted.

  Toho, startled, pointed instinctively toward the sound.

  The motion betrayed them.

  The clearing erupted. Hooves churned soil. Grass flattened. The boars bolted toward the northern thicket.

  Yotsino moved on reflex. A short bow and three arrows were thrust into Toho’s hands.

  “Now. Shoot.”

  The weapon’s grip was narrow, the draw heavy. Toho fumbled the nock once. Twice.

  “Anchor to the cheek,” Yotsino whispered urgently. “Exhale. Release.”

  Toho drew. String groaned under strain. Arms trembled — not from fear, but from unfamiliar tension. He sighted along the shaft, aiming for the hindmost animal breaking left.

  Release.

  The arrow flew high and right, slicing harmlessly into birch bark far short of its mark.

  Within seconds the herd vanished into dense underbrush, swallowed by foliage and distance.

  Silence reclaimed the clearing.

  Only Toho’s embarrassed exhale disturbed it.

  Yotsino lowered his own bow slowly.

  Toho handed the weapon back. “I… don’t know how to use one.”

  “You will.” Yotsino tested the string’s tension. A small grin broke through the sternness. “At least you didn’t shoot me.”

  A short laugh escaped Toho, tension dissolving.

  They settled on the fallen log. Yotsino retrieved a pouch of dried meat and divided it without ceremony — equal shares, no hierarchy implied.

  The breeze returned, softer now. Pine and distant water.

  “You’re not from here,” Yotsino said at length. “But you don’t frighten easily. That is rare.”

  Toho stared toward the trail where the herd had vanished. “I’ve had practice being lost.”

  The admission hung between them — unspoken histories, unnamed wars, fractures that had displaced more than livestock.

  Yotsino rose, brushing soil from his knees. “There is still daylight. We will track their secondary trail tomorrow. They will circle back to water.”

  Toho stood as well. The bow in his hand — still unfamiliar, but no longer foreign. A tool awaiting discipline.

  The late afternoon sun slanted through the woven gaps of the shelter wall, laying long bands of amber across the mat where Toho sat, still recovering from the river’s cold bite and the humiliation of the missed shot. Sweat cooled along his spine. His arms throbbed.

  A crack split the air.

  Yotsino’s palm struck the central wooden beam with the force of a hammer on shield. The sound echoed through the hut.

  “For costing me my food today,” he said, voice low and without appeal, “you will train until you bleed.”

  Toho looked up.

  The boy who had laughed over dried meat was gone. In his place stood something sharper—disciplined, unyielding. Not cruel. Exacting.

  Yotsino stepped forward, seized the short bow from the wall, and tossed it into Toho’s lap.

  “Get up.”

  Toho rose. His body protested — legs unsteady, shoulders already heavy from the morning. Yotsino did not care.

  “Fundamentals first,” he said. “You will not eat until you can hold proper stance for ten breaths without shaking.”

  Outside, the clearing behind the shelter lay flat and open — hard earth, a single stump upright at thirty paces. A soldier’s training ground in miniature.

  “Feet.”

  Toho placed them.

  “Shoulder-width. Weight forward.”

  He adjusted. The ground beneath his soles uneven and bumpy.

  “Knees soft. Not weak.”

  He bent them slightly. His left knee wobbled immediately.

  “Again.”

  Yotsino circled him like a sergeant inspecting recruits.

  “Steady your grip, three fingers under the string, thumb relaxed. The cord bit into the soft pads beneath your knuckles on the first pull.”

  “Draw the anchor at cheek, elbow high, back muscles engaged. His shoulders rounded instinctively. The string slipped halfway.”

  “Elbow up not down. Chest open.”

  He tried a second time. The bowstring snapped back against his forearm, leaving a red welt.

  “Again.”

  The first arrow struck dirt three paces in front of him.

  Toho exhaled through clenched teeth. Imei would be laughing right now. “You missed the whole stump!” The thought stung more than the welt.

  Second arrow clipped the stump sideways and spun away into grass.

  “Stop dropping your shoulder.”

  Third arrow sailed high, vanishing into the underbrush with a faint rustle.

  Toho lowered the bow. His fingers already throbbed — skin hot, reddening.

  Yotsino’s voice remained even. “Again.”

  Fourth. The draw weighed heavier. His triceps quivered after five seconds. Release came too early — arrow buried itself in the dirt at twenty paces.

  Fifth. Blisters formed under his fingertips, swelling with each pull.

  Sixth. The blisters split. Blood welled in thin lines. The string turned slick; his grip faltered. The arrow flew wide left.

  He stared at his hand. Red smeared across the wood.

  This is nothing compared to the sea, he told himself. Nothing compared to clinging to a plank while everyone drowned.

  Seventh. His thighs burned from holding stance. Sweat stung the cuts on his fingers.

  Eighth. The draw became mechanical. Pain sharpened focus. The arrow struck the stump — low, off-center, but it struck.

  Yotsino said nothing. Only nodded once.

  Ninth. Toho’s breath came in short, controlled bursts. The string bit deeper. Blood dripped onto the dirt in dark drops.

  Tenth. He held the draw. Ten breaths. No shake.

  Yotsino stepped forward. “Enough.”

  Toho lowered the bow slowly. His arms trembled — not from weakness now, but from release.

  The sun had shifted far west. Shadows stretched long across the clearing.

  Yotsino studied him. “You did not quit.”

  Toho met his eyes. “I’ve had practice not quitting.”

  Yotsino’s grin returned — small, approving.

  “Tomorrow we shoot at moving targets. Tonight… you eat.”

  Toho exhaled — relief, exhaustion, and something close to pride mingling in his chest.

  The wind stirred faintly through the trees.

  Somewhere far off, a single drumbeat echoed once.

  Toho heard it.

  And kept walking.

  The late afternoon sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the clearing in molten gold. Toho lowered the bow. His chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm.

  He looked sideways. “Are you alone here?”

  Yotsino’s gaze drifted toward the distant forest line.

  “My father is at the front,” he said. “Fighting the enemy.”

  He offered no further detail — no name for the foe, no border, no cause. Tanna had known war before; it would know it afresh.

  “I will become the best soldier,” Yotsino continued, straightening unconsciously. “Head of cavalry.” His voice sharpened with the same edge he had used during training. “That is why I must be fed well — every time I think I am ready.”

  The sternness cracked. A small, crooked grin broke through.

  He studied Toho for a long moment — the bloodied fingers still curled around the bowstring, shoulders squared despite exhaustion, eyes steady even after hours of failure.

  “You never quit,” Yotsino said quietly. “Even when your hands bled. Even when the arrows missed by half the clearing. You just… kept going.”

  Toho looked down at the red streaks on his palms. Then back at the boy.

  “I’ve had practice,” he answered.

  Yotsino nodded slowly — as though measuring something deeper than words.

  “I saw it,” he said. “The way you stood there after every miss. Like the pain was just… another thing to carry. Not a reason to stop.”

  He stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper.

  “That is what I want to become. Someone who does not break.”

  Toho met his eyes.

  For a heartbeat neither spoke.

  Then Yotsino’s grin returned — smaller, but real.

  The arrow cut the night.

  It curved—not wildly, but with deliberate grace—cutting beneath the eagle’s shadow and striking the fish mid-body. Clean penetration.

  The eagle shrieked, banking away in furious retreat.

  The fish fell, pinned to the riverbank by the shaft.

  Silence followed, stunned and absolute.

  The late afternoon sun had already begun its slow descent when Yotsino stopped circling.

  Toho lowered the bow. His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts. Sweat had long since soaked through his tunic; now it cooled against his skin in the lengthening shadows. His fingers were raw — blisters broken, blood streaking the string in thin dark lines. Every joint from wrist to shoulder ached with a deep, bone-level fire.

  Yotsino stood motionless for a long moment, arms crossed, studying him.

  Then he spoke, voice low and final.

  “Call it a day.”

  Toho exhaled — relief and exhaustion mingling in the same breath. He handed the bow back without a word. Yotsino took it, inspected the bloodied string, then set it carefully against the shelter wall.

  They moved inside without speaking. The shelter became smaller in the fading light. Toho sank onto his mat. Yotsino unrolled his own beside the low fire pit and lay down immediately, turning his back.

  Sleep came fast for the boy.

  For Toho it did not.

  He stared at the woven ceiling, listening to the night settle — insects, distant water, the occasional rustle of leaves. His body hurt. His mind would not quiet.

  Somewhere in the small hours a heavy gust slammed against the shelter. Reeds rattled. Branches groaned outside. The mat beneath Toho shifted slightly.

  Yotsino woke first — eyes snapping open, hand already reaching for his knife.

  He sat up.

  Toho’s mat was empty.

  Yotsino slipped outside barefoot.

  Moonlight washed the clearing in cold silver. Yellow and brown leaves spun in restless spirals, carried on a wind that moved with purpose.

  And there — at the center of the clearing — stood Toho.

  Bow in hand. Stance perfect.

  Feet exactly shoulder-width. Weight balanced forward on the balls of his feet. Knees soft but locked. Core tight. Shoulders square. Bow arm straight, elbow slightly high. Draw hand anchored firm at the cheek. Breath slow, even, timed to the gusts.

  Yotsino’s breath caught.

  That stance…

  He had seen it only once — years ago, from a legendary archer who had passed through their village during a border skirmish. The man had shot a hawk from the sky without seeming to aim. The same poise. The same unnatural stillness.

  But this was different.

  Toho was not rigid. He was alive with the wind.

  Leaves spiraled around him in tight, deliberate orbits — never touching his skin, never breaking the clean lines of his form. The gusts circled his head like a crown, lifting strands of hair, then falling away in perfect rhythm with his breathing.

  Yotsino’s knife hand lowered slowly.

  What is he doing?.

  Inside the frozen moment, Toho was still.

  The wind was no longer background noise. It spoke — spirals brushing the length of his arms, guiding elbow height; gusts pressing against the breadth of his shoulders, steadying his draw; currents wrapping the width of his stance, locking balance into place. Every breath pulled the bowstring taut; every exhale eased the tension just enough.

  His eyes opened.

  A cloud drifted across the moon. Darkness swept the clearing. Moonlight returned in a single sharp ray.

  The wind shifted — bending reeds and grass eastward toward the river bend.

  Toho looked sideways.

  SPLASH.

  A fish leapt from the water — silver body arcing high, scales catching moonlight.

  Time slowed — not full stop, but a heavy drag. The wind’s whisper became a roar in his ears.

  Toho drew his right leg backward in one smooth motion.

  He twisted his torso at the waist — core rotating, hips leading, shoulders following in perfect sequence.

  Breath out.

  Locked in.

  Release.

  The arrow flew — a clean, curving arc through the night.

  It struck the fish mid-descent — piercing just behind the gills as the body re-entered the water.

  Water erupted in a glittering spray.

  The fish floated up — arrow through it, thrashing once, then still.

  Yotsino stepped out from the shadows.

  His mouth opened, then closed.

  He walked to the bank, pulled the fish free, inspected it.

  “Not edible,” he muttered. “Snakehead. River fish. Too many bones. Flesh like leather.”

  Toho lowered the bow slowly. His fingers bled freely now — red lines running down the wood. He hadn’t noticed.

  Yotsino looked at him — really looked.

  “That shot…” he whispered. “You didn’t aim. You… followed.”

  Toho met his gaze.

  “I heard it.”

  Yotsino nodded once — understanding more than Toho had said.

  “You can stop now.”

  Toho did not answer at first. The moment lingered in his mind—the stillness, the certainty, the way the wind had guided him.

  They gathered fruit instead before returning—bananas, guava, and a single ripe papaya cradled carefully in a woven sling.

  Inside the shelter, the light dimmed toward dusk.

  Toho set the bow down.

  His hand hovered over the papaya.

  Memory surfaced unbidden—Kenji’s wide grin, Imei’s theatrical outrage, Sawai’s laughter echoing against timber beams, the warmth of shared meals and unguarded talk.

  Another day passed without them knowing he lived.”

  He withdrew his hand and set the fruit aside, untouched.

  Yotsino watched him quietly.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, tone measured once more, “we try again.”

  Toho nodded—not smiling, but steadied by something deeper than confidence.

  Outside, the wind rose through the trees.