The mist clung low between the trees like forgotten breath. Dew beaded along the porch rail, catching early sunlight in soft sparks. I stepped out quietly, careful not to wake Nick. The door clicked shut behind me with a gentle finality.

The village still slept.

A soft hush covered everything — not silence, but the kind of quiet that lives in deep woods and early hours. Even the birds hadn’t started their usual chatter.

The bow hung over my shoulder, its weight now familiar. I walked barefoot across the clearing behind Nick’s house, the earth cool and slightly damp beneath my steps.

There, near the treeline, stood a weather-worn stump we’d used for practice the day before. I knocked a stray twig off it and took my position.

Breathe in.
Draw.
Breathe out.
Release.

The arrow thudded into the wood, not far from center. Better than yesterday.

I reached for another and nocked it smoothly. The draw came easier now. The bow didn’t resist. It responded.

Thwip. Another shot. Near the first.

And then it happened — faint and quiet, like the flicker of wind across still water.

A soft blue shimmer hovered before my eyes.

synchronization
[ 0.00 ⇒ 0.197 ]

I blinked. The words floated just above the stump, dissolving slowly like frost in sunlight. Gone before I could fully read them again.
There was no sound to it, no grand effect. But something inside me shifted—not a skill exactly, more like brushing past a door I wasn’t supposed to notice yet.

“Still practicing?”

I turned sharply. Nick stood in the open doorway, one hand rubbing sleep from his eyes, the other balancing a mug of steaming tea.

“You’re up early,” he said, stepping out onto the porch with a yawn. “Or… did you even sleep?”

“Some,” I said, lowering the bow. “Not much.”

He sipped his drink and nodded toward the target. “You’re hitting straighter.”

I let the bow rest in the crook of my elbow. “Feels… clearer today. Like I’m listening better.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “That supposed to mean something?”

I shrugged, forcing a small smile. “Probably not.”

He didn’t push. Just stood there a while, letting the quiet between us stretch. The scent of pine resin and morning bark floated on the air. Somewhere, far off, a crow called once — then nothing.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” I asked after a long moment.

Nick lowered his mug, staring out past the trees.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s too quiet.”

A gust of wind stirred the leaves, and in that breeze was something… wrong. Faint. But it scraped along the edge of my nerves like a dull blade.

We stood like that, in the stillness. Waiting.

And then, just beyond the rise, I heard it — the soft crunch of paws on wet leaves. Fast. Unsteady.

A small rabbit burst into view, ears flapping wildly, eyes wide with breathless urgency.

“Nick! Sebastian! Elder Moss—she says you need to come. Now.”

The little rabbit was panting hard, paws on his knees. “It’s the elder—she says it’s important. Real important.”

Nick and I exchanged a look.

Without another word, we grabbed our things and followed the young runner through the trees, past the winding path toward the heart of Cottonwell. The scent of damp earth clung to everything, and as we neared the village center, I noticed more rabbits than usual were awake—gathered in tight clusters, whispering.

Elder Moss was already there, standing atop the low root-ledge in front of the communal hall. She didn’t raise her voice, but it carried all the same.

“…just beyond the carrot fields. Not far,” she said, her weathered paw holding up a scorched piece of bark. “We found this. Burned clean, still warm. Hoofprints in the mud nearby. Too large for deer. Too many for wild strays.”

A low murmur spread through the crowd. Nervous glances. Some clutched their scarves tighter. Others reached instinctively for tools at their belts—not weapons, but sharp enough to matter.

“They’re coming, aren’t they?” someone near the back asked. A young mother. “The ones from before.”

Elder Moss didn’t answer right away. Her silence said enough.

“They’ll torch everything,” another voice muttered. “We’re not ready for this.”

“We should go,” someone else said, louder this time. “Gather what we can. Get out before it’s too late.”

“And go where?” snapped an older buck. “The woods? You think they won’t follow us?”

“We’re not soldiers,” another argued. “We’re farmers. Builders. What good is standing our ground if we get wiped out?”

Nick stepped forward. Not loud, but steady. “Running doesn’t save you from a fire—it just delays the burn.”

All eyes turned toward him.

He met them, one by one. “I say we hold. We know these woods. These paths. We prepare. We make it cost them something if they come through here.”

A few nods. A few more doubtful stares.

“What, with garden tools and carrot spears?” someone scoffed.

Nick didn’t flinch. “With whatever we have. With each other.”

Beside me, the bow still rested against my leg. My fingers found the smooth grain without thinking. The warmth in it pulsed faintly—like it agreed.

“We’ve faced worse,” Elder Moss said at last. “Maybe not all at once, maybe not like this—but Cottonwell was never built on fear. It was built on stubbornness and soil.”

That brought a soft ripple of chuckles. Even now, tension broke just a little.

She turned to Nick. “What would you have us do, fox?”

“Set watches,” he said. “Double them. Start prepping the fields—turn them into traps if we have to. Reinforce the hall. And we get everyone ready, even the ones who’ve never held a spear.”

A pause. Then a few voices echoed: “I can help with that.” “I’ve got extra rope and nails.” “We can dig lines. My boys are fast.”

I looked around. The fear was still there—but so was something else. Something steadier.

Moss gave a satisfied nod. “Then it’s decided. We prepare. And we hold.”

The meeting slowly began to break apart. Rabbits moved in clusters—some off to check fences, others to gather tools or whisper hurried instructions. The center of the village hummed with nervous energy, but it was action, not panic.

Nick stepped up beside me, his voice quiet. “You’re with me?”

I looked at him. Then down at the bow.

“Yeah,” I said. “All the way.”

We stood together for a long moment, watching the village take its first steps toward defense.

The sun climbed higher by the time we set out for the northern ridge, the dirt path drier now under our feet. A few birds chirped listlessly, and the wind carried the scent of pine and warm grass.

Nick walked a little ahead, ears flicking now and then as if scanning the treetops for sound. He stayed quiet at first. So did I.

We reached the edge of the ridge just before the trees thinned. From there, the whole north side stretched out—gentle slopes, scattered underbrush, and far in the distance, the old logging path no one used anymore.

Nick knelt, fingers brushing a fresh indent in the soil. Not a print—just a shift. He frowned.

“Could be an animal,” he murmured. “Or not.”

I kept my eyes on the treeline. “Still no movement.”

He stood and nodded. “Good. Let’s sweep the bend up ahead, then loop back.”

We walked for a while, quiet.

Then Nick spoke. “You know, I used to wait too long to act. Thought it was better to be sure than be wrong.”

I looked over at him. “Did that… get someone hurt?”

His eyes stayed ahead, fixed on the ridge trail. “Yeah.”

The wind rustled the leaves again, soft and dry.

“I was younger,” he said finally. “Not much older than you now. There was a storm coming through another village—north of here, a place called Bellerun. Everyone felt it. You could smell it in the dirt. But I kept saying we had time. That we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

“What happened?”

“Flash flood,” he said. “Came through overnight. Washed out half the homes. Two didn’t make it out. I was the one who told them they had time.”

I didn’t know what to say at first. “I’m sorry.”

Nick shook his head. “I learned from it. Learned that being wrong because you acted too fast is one thing. Being wrong because you waited too long… that stays with you.”

We stopped near an outcrop of rock, looking down at the slope. Still quiet. Still no signs of movement.

“I think about that when I hear things like this—hoofprints, scorch marks,” he continued. “Doesn’t matter if it’s just one torch. If it’s headed for your house, that’s all it takes.”

I nodded slowly. “So now, you act.”

“Now, I act,” he said.

I rested my hand on the bow slung across my shoulder. “Thanks for telling me.”

He gave me a look. Not quite a smile, but something close. “Didn’t tell you for thanks.”

“Still. It means something.”

Nick scanned the treeline one more time, silent. Then he gave a small nod. “Come on. We’ve seen what we need to.”

We followed the ridge back in silence, the forest breathing around us.

Back at Nick’s porch, the last of the afternoon light slid low across the trees. The carrot-root lantern beside the door glowed faintly, its pulse slow and steady like a waiting heartbeat.

I stood there a moment, hand on the rail, eyes out toward the forest. The air felt different now—tighter, thinner.

“They’re coming,” I said.

Nick didn’t flinch. Just stepped up beside me, setting his pack down with a quiet thump.

“Then let them,” he said.

And the lantern’s soft light glowed on.
Waiting.