Page 297 of Blade of the Nightking

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking self-conscious. "Perhaps I should've traded it for a doll⁠—"

"No." I look up at him, his outline blurring before my eyes. "I love it."

His face softens, every hard edge melting into a tender smile I haven’t seen in a long time. I throw my arms around his waist, my hand brushing the iron blade at his hip, warm as it always is, as though it cradles a hidden flame.

"Thank you, Papa."

He laughs softly.

"Thought we'd see if you know how to use it."

I pull back so fast I almost trip over my own boots.

"Now?"

"Well, I didn't carve it so it'd sit inside collecting dust."

The walk beyond Midland feels like an adventure all on its own. Snow crunches beneath our boots as we weave through the forest, the trees even more skeletal up close than they ever look from behind the walls. I stay close to Father, though there's nothing to fear. At least not today. The putrid scent of death is nowhere in the air. The Infected haven't come this way much this year. Instead, the wind smells of frost and pine, sharp enough to sting my nose, cleaner than the smoke and misery of Midland behind us.

I'm starting to hope they're leaving. Maybe they'll go back through the Veil and never return.

I smile.

Maybe we won't have to take any more heads. Maybe the other children won't be afraid of me anymore. Maybe I'll finally make friends this year.

We stop in a clearing where the snow has already been trampled. A target is propped against the knotted trunk of an old pine, a quiver of arrows resting at its roots.

Father teaches me how to stand, where to plant my feet, and how to aim. He shows me how to nock an arrow and draw the string back. It makes the muscles in my back and shoulders burn, and the fletching tickles my nose. I sneeze through my first shot, sending the arrow sailing somewhere into the brush.

Father laughs, the deep gravel of it like stone shifting beneath the earth. I laugh with him—so hard I can't keep my next arrow straight either, and it lands nowhere near the target.

"Lesson number one." He ruffles my hair again, chuckling. "Try not to miss."

It’s my fifth arrow that strikes true.

The thud echoes through the clearing. For a heartbeat, Father and I only stare.

Then I let out a triumphant squeal.

Father throws both hands into the air. "Ha!" He claps so loudly a crow bursts from the trees overhead, cawing its outrage as it weaves between the branches and disappears from sight.

"Did you see that?" I shout.

"I certainly did!"

He sweeps me clean off my feet, spinning me in a circle until the world becomes nothing but snow and sky and sunlight. I'm laughing so hard I can barely breathe.

"Another year or two," he says as he sets me down again, "and you'll put every Hunter in Midland to shame."

My chest swells.

I've never felt taller.

The snow has turned gold beneath the setting sun by the time we finally trudge home. My back aches in the best way, my muscles so sore I can't even lift the bow anymore. Father carries it slung over one shoulder, listening while I chatter about my shots—what I did right, all the things I know I did wrong. He wears a quiet smile, every hard line of his face softened. He seems almost as happy as I am, and it isn't even his birthday.

The smell reaches me before we open the door.

Lamb.