Stag-gering
“Keep your focus… but relax your grip. Aim just a hair above the target,” Lisabelle murmured, standing close beside Viena. Her voice was low, precise, calm as a drawn line. “Let the string graze your cheek. Just a little. Steady now… release when you’re ready.”
Fwoosh.
Thud—stab.
“Got 'em!” Viena gasped, bouncing on her heels with wide, triumphant eyes.
The arrow flew true, burying itself into the leg of a yellow fox at the riverbank. With a sharp yelp, the animal bolted, limping desperately across the shallows. But it didn’t get far. The bay retriever—sleek, tawny, and mercilessly quick—was already on it. The dog’s jaws clamped down hard, dragging the fox back through the water. Moments later, the creature lay lifeless at Viena’s boots—Lisabelle’s arrow still lodged in its leg, its throat ripped apart by the fang of the canine.
Lisabelle let out a low whistle, hands resting on her hips. "Mmhm. Not bad for your sixth try."
Viena flashed a wild grin, her chest swelling with pride.
“Ha! All that lecturing, and you haven’t even fired once! You know what, Lily? Let’s make a bet!”
Lisabelle cocked her head, one brow arching high.
“Oh? Look at you—swaggering around on pure beginner’s luck. Alright, kid. What’s it gonna be?”
Viena rubbed her chin theatrically, lips pursing into a mischievous little smirk. Lisabelle narrowed her eyes, already sensing the nonsense brewing behind that look.
“Ten shots each. Winner’s the one with the most kills! And if I win… no meat for you at lunch.”
Lisabelle barked out a dry laugh, shaking her head slowly.
“Heh. Alright. If I win, you’re giving me a half-hour massage."
Their hands slapped together, firm and grinning—deal struck.
The game was on.
Viena wasted no time. Slinging her bow over her shoulder, she dashed deeper into the forest, trailing behind the hounds and a few of the men. Lisabelle followed at an easier stride, her expression calm but the spark of competition bright in her eyes.
The woods thickened around them—tall birches and broad-shouldered oaks hemming the narrow paths, their leaves trembling faintly under the morning breeze. The underbrush crackled softly beneath their boots. Dappled sunlight spilled like honey across the mossy floor.
Suddenly, movement flickered ahead.
A herd of Blueland deer grazed in a clearing, their dusky hides blending into the cool shades of green and gray. Antlers crowned the largest stag, heavy and sharp as a crown of bone. Viena’s eyes gleamed.
“Perfect.” she breathed, nocking another arrow.
“I think a smaller bow might suit you better. Want to give it a try, kid?” a warm voice rumbled behind her.
Sir Kimberly—broad-shouldered and thick-bearded—stood nearby, one hand resting on the hilt of his hunting knife. His leathers were scuffed from long patrols, but his eyes were sharp and bright beneath his weathered brow. He’d been tasked with guiding the party through these woods by Lord Liam Arbon, Baron of Niems. No man alive knew the southern forests better than him; the tangled valleys and game trails were etched into his bones.
Viena didn’t even glance back. Her chin tilted high with a smug grin.
“Tsk. Tsk. No need, uncle. I’m strong.”
Sir Kimberly chuckled, deep and rumbling.
“Ha! Sure, sure. You let me know if you change your mind.”
Viena puffed out her chest, unbothered and brimming with bravado.
“Nah. They won’t get the chance. One shot, one kill!” She flashed a cocky grin and slinked toward the underbrush.
The men shadowing her—four seasoned rangers clad in leathers and green cloaks—lounged nearby, relaxed and grinning among themselves. They’d started their own wagers on the bet between the sisters, tossing quiet coins back and forth. Between their sharp eyes and swift hands, Lisabelle knew she could watch in peace.
Sure enough, a few tense minutes later, Viena released her arrow.
The shaft whistled through the air and struck—but too low, burying itself just above the stag’s hindleg. The beast reared, muscles rippling under its slate-gray coat, and let out a savage bugle that echoed off the trunks. Its antlers tossed as it locked eyes on Viena. In an instant, it charged.
“RUN, VIVI! CLIMB THE TREES!” Lisabelle’s voice cracked across the clearing, more delighted than alarmed.
Around her, the men whooped and clapped, egging Viena on like drunken gamblers at a brawl. The little girl squeaked, tossed her bow aside, and scrambled up the nearest tree. Bark and moss scraped her palms as she hauled herself onto a low branch. The stag thundered beneath her, massive and furious, slamming its antlers into the trunk with bone-jarring force. The tree shuddered violently. Viena yelped as her footing slipped—leaving her dangling by her fingertips, legs flailing.
“Ugh! H-Help me! Lily!” she cried, voice cracking.
Lisabelle folded her arms, lips twitching as she fought off a smirk.
“Oh dear. I can’t hear you,” she sang, cupping a hand to her ear in mock concern.
“LILY! I’M FALLING!”
One of the rangers stepped forward, concern creasing his brow.
“Milady? Shall I—?”
Lisabelle’s gloved hand shot out and pinched the man’s mustache sharply, tugging him aside. Her amber eyes didn’t waver from Viena.
“Don’t interfere. She’ll learn something today,” she said flatly.
The men exchanged knowing looks. Those who had hunted alongside Lisabelle long enough knew: when she made up her mind, no power in Rosmayne could sway her. And—she always had her reasons.
“Aaah, Vivi,” Lisabelle called, her voice laced with wicked amusement. “Didn’t you say you didn’t need help? Where’d all that confidence scamper off to, hmm?”
“I—I was kidding! Come on! At least shoo it away!”
The stag rammed the tree again. Viena let out a strangled gasp as her fingers slid, knuckles whitening.
“No. No one’s helping. But—I’ll tell you how to help yourself.”
“M-Milady… isn’t that too harsh? She could fall and—”
Lisabelle silenced the man with a glare sharp enough to shave bark. She took one measured step forward, hands on her hips, and spoke—crisp, commanding.
“Stop squirming. Align your body with the branch. Strengthen your fingers. Don’t waste energy trying to pull yourself up yet.”
Despite herself, Viena’s frantic breath steadied. She obeyed.
“Good. Now—start swinging your legs. Slow at first. Back and forth. Build momentum.”
Viena kicked hesitantly, then more firmly, the rhythm smoothing as her arc widened.
“When the swing feels strong, hook your legs over the branch. Lock them tight.”
She tried—and slipped, nearly sobbing in frustration.
“Focus! Crying won’t save you. If you fall, that stag won’t be gentle,” Lisabelle snapped, voice cutting through the din like steel.
Viena’s eyes snapped open, fear sharpening her mind. On the next swing, she latched her legs around the branch, squeezing hard and catching the bark in the crook of her knees and armpits.
“Now—roll over it. Get your belly atop the branch. Move!”
With a grunt and a final surge, Viena hauled herself over. She lay draped on the branch, chest heaving, face flushed—but safe.
“Not bad,” Lisabelle murmured, a flicker of pride hidden behind her cool demeanor.
Below, the stag hadn’t relented. It circled the tree, hooves churning the loam, occasionally smashing its antlers into the trunk with stubborn fury.
“What now…? HEY! WHY ARE YOU EATING MY COOKIES?!” Viena shrieked.
On the forest floor, Lisabelle lounged against a mossy rock, calmly plucking biscuits from Viena’s satchel and feeding them to the tail-wagging hounds gathered at her feet.
“Oh? I almost forgot you were still up there,” Lisabelle called breezily.
“LILY!”
“Alright, alright. Hold your horses.”
She rose with languid grace, dusted crumbs from her gloves, and lifted her bow. Her amber gaze locked on the stag, calm and unblinking. She moved a few paces to the side, planting her boots in the earth, finding the line. Then she waited—still as marble.
The stag lowered its antlers for another charge and slammed into the trunk. As it paused to shake off the blow, Lisabelle’s silver whistle cut sharply through the air. The stag froze mid-snort.
Her bow creaked softly. The arrow loosed—swift, silent, and true.
It sank deep into the soft hollow behind the stag’s foreleg, piercing through heart and lung. The beast staggered, muscles twitching violently, and collapsed in a heap of splayed limbs.
Dead before it hit the ground.
One of the rangers let out a low, impressed whistle.
“Sharp as always, eh, Lady Lisabelle?”
Lisabelle exhaled smoothly, lowering her bow. A small, satisfied smile curled the corner of her lips.
“Well done! We’ll have ourselves a feast at midday!”
The men clapped each other on the backs, their dogs darting ahead to nose the fallen stag. Laughter and the sharp bark of commands echoed across the clearing as they set to work dressing the kill. Lisabelle lingered behind, leisurely stooping to retrieve Viena’s discarded bow. She dusted the dirt from its grip and swung it over her shoulder before glancing up at the tree.
“Not bad, little squirrel,” Lisabelle called, her voice dry with amusement. “Though I did warn you—don’t let beginner’s luck swell your head.”
“Hmph! That’s cheating!” Viena huffed, her cheeks puffed as she clambered down the trunk. “It was already wounded by my shot!”
Lisabelle laughed—a rich, unrestrained sound—and ruffled Viena’s tousled hair with a gloved hand. “What a brat you are. You ought to learn where a beast keeps its vitals before mouthing off and making bets. Shooting a stag in the backside does nothing except giving them a great motivation to tear you to shreds."
"I-It wasn't their ass!" Viena sputtered, face flushing crimson. “It was… the, um—the rear side of the stomach! I meant it as a long-term wound! The stag would’ve bled out on its own eventually!”
Lisabelle snorted and gave her an indulgent shove on the shoulder. Around them, the rest of the party burst into laughter, their banter rising like warm embers into the crisp woodland air. They spent several more hours tracking, riding, and hunting—Viena’s energy boundless at first, until it gradually waned, her limbs sagging from the weight of the day’s adventure.
By the time they made their slow ride back toward the village, the sun had tipped past its zenith, dappling gold through the trees. Viena, worn thin from exertion, had long since curled up and drifted asleep on Lisabelle’s lap in the saddle. Her small frame rose and fell with steady breaths, strands of hair clinging to her flushed cheeks.
“She’s a lively one,” one of the hunters remarked, steering his horse closer. His voice was warm with approval.
"Ain't too shabby, the lass." another chimed in. "Paying no mind with blood and dirt. That's rare for kids nowadays."
Lisabelle didn’t answer at once. She only lowered her gaze, her gloved fingers combing absentmindedly through Viena’s sleep-mussed hair. A faint, rare smile softened her sharp features. She hummed under her breath—an old, lilted tune from her childhood. As the hunters’ chatter faded into the quiet rhythm of hooves and birdsong, Lisabelle’s gaze drifted toward the endless green mosaic of the forest slipping behind them.
.
.
.
"Of course. It's my little sister we're talking about," Lisabelle whispered to herself, answering the previous question given to her.