Theea
they may say you're too small, you're too young
to do it all, but you're a giant on the inside
to do it all, but you're a giant on the inside
I can feel my grin tug wider when Damien smirks and nods, the quiet weight of his approval landing warm despite the cold. I nod back, pleased, and slip my bow from my shoulder. Hunting’s never been my strongest suit, but I’d gone enough times with my parents to know my way around a shot—and neither of them would have tolerated me missing a target.
His instructions are met with a silent nod, my steps sinking softer into the snow, my gaze sharpening to catch every shadow. I don’t take it as condescension—he’s got more years at this than I’ve even been alive. If he’s telling me how to move, it’s worth listening.
We reach the trees, and I keep one eye on him, memorizing how he moves, the way he checks the bark, the way his fingers read the story in the wood. The other eye sweeps the rest of our surroundings. Then he signals, and I follow his gesture to the patch of disturbed snow. I draw one of my four arrows slow and careful, fitting it to the string, and trail after him down the ridge into the broken teeth of the Fangs.
When we reach the tracks, I crouch for a better look. The edges are crisp, clean—untouched by wind. “Hasn’t even had time for the snow to settle,” I murmur. My breath ghosts in front of me as I glance toward the narrow gorge ahead. “Wish I had a wolf shift like my parents right about now. I could just sniff it out.” The joke is quiet, but my voice is steadier than I feel.
I take a deep breath and fix my gaze on the narrow cut of stone and shadow where the tracks lead. The prickle starts at the base of my skull, crawling down my spine—like invisible eyes are on us. I lock eyes with him and nod. ”I’ve got your back,” I promise, and press on.
I keep my arrow ready, fingers flexing against the string, every step deliberate. My focus is on our surroundings, the ridges above, the folds of shadow. I trust Damien to lead us.
His instructions are met with a silent nod, my steps sinking softer into the snow, my gaze sharpening to catch every shadow. I don’t take it as condescension—he’s got more years at this than I’ve even been alive. If he’s telling me how to move, it’s worth listening.
We reach the trees, and I keep one eye on him, memorizing how he moves, the way he checks the bark, the way his fingers read the story in the wood. The other eye sweeps the rest of our surroundings. Then he signals, and I follow his gesture to the patch of disturbed snow. I draw one of my four arrows slow and careful, fitting it to the string, and trail after him down the ridge into the broken teeth of the Fangs.
When we reach the tracks, I crouch for a better look. The edges are crisp, clean—untouched by wind. “Hasn’t even had time for the snow to settle,” I murmur. My breath ghosts in front of me as I glance toward the narrow gorge ahead. “Wish I had a wolf shift like my parents right about now. I could just sniff it out.” The joke is quiet, but my voice is steadier than I feel.
I take a deep breath and fix my gaze on the narrow cut of stone and shadow where the tracks lead. The prickle starts at the base of my skull, crawling down my spine—like invisible eyes are on us. I lock eyes with him and nod. ”I’ve got your back,” I promise, and press on.
I keep my arrow ready, fingers flexing against the string, every step deliberate. My focus is on our surroundings, the ridges above, the folds of shadow. I trust Damien to lead us.
