Black Blood Story

One Week Later

It was the first time I had left the castle. And right away, everything felt like a dream — one of those dreams where you don't even know if you want to wake up.

The forest was... alive. Everything in it seemed to breathe in its own way. The leaves whispered to each other, the wind whistled through the tall branches, and the sunlight filtered through the tree canopies as if it were dancing. The ground was soft, covered by a thick layer of dry leaves and loose earth. I had never felt anything like that beneath my boots. I had also never touched the bark of a tree. It was rough, full of marks, as if each one had its own story carved into it.

Beside me, my father walked. Tall, strong, with that ever-steady expression, as if he were ready to fight the whole world at any moment. He walked with confidence, alert to every sound, every movement. We were dressed in hunting clothes and carried bows on our backs. I tried to imitate him, but the truth was, I could hardly contain my excitement.

"What's that?" I asked, frowning as I pointed to a small, green, chubby thing stuck to the trunk of a tree. It was motionless, as if sleeping with its eyes open. It had a segmented, shiny body that was almost sticky. "It looks like... I don't know, alien gum"

"A caterpillar" he replied with bored disdain, not even bothering to look in the direction I was pointing. He crossed his arms and continued walking, as if my curiosity was an annoyance.

"And what does it do?" I insisted, walking behind him.

He paused for a moment, tilting his head slightly toward the sky as if asking the gods for patience, and let out a long sigh. Then he replied with a voice laden with irony:

"Don't ask difficult questions"

"Right..." I muttered, rolling my eyes, and turned my attention to a sudden movement among the branches. "What's that?" I pointed to a furry, agile creature climbing quickly up the trunk of another tree, pausing for a moment to stare at us with round, curious eyes. "What is it?"

"A squirrel" he replied, this time with a hint of goodwill.

"Why is he so... different from us?" I asked, tilting my head. "Can he talk?"

"Some can. These ones can't" he replied simply, shrugging his shoulders.

"Oh... so squirrels can talk?" My eyes widened, intrigued by the idea.

"In some regions" he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"And how do you know that?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him, now a little suspicious.

It sounded like one of those answers adults give just to end a conversation.

He stopped again, turned on his heels, and stared at me with an exasperated, almost feline look.

"I just know!" he growled, his teeth clenched and his tone impatient, as if he were dealing with a child who asked too many questions.

But I couldn't stop myself. Everything was so new. The trees, the sounds, the animals, the smell. I asked about everything: why the ground was soft, what trees were, why the sun was warm, what our clothes were made of... I wanted to understand the world, because until then, all I knew were stone corridors, tapestries, and windows too high to see anything beyond the sky.

My father, however, seemed on the brink of a nervous breakdown. He even muttered something about giving Benta — the maid who looked after me — a raise. I imagined it was for putting up with my "inner brat," as he put it.

After a while, he stopped and announced:

"Let's stop here"

I could see it in his face that he had reached his limit. I suspect he expected this journey to be quieter. But it was the first time I was seeing the world for real. How could I stay quiet?

He took a deep breath, looked around, and then at me.

"I'll teach you how to shoot a bow" he said in a calm but firm tone. "Did you read the book I gave you?"

I straightened up, excited, trying to hide how much that question thrilled me.

"Yes!" I replied immediately, almost interrupting him. "The bow is the king of weapons, the assassin from a distance, the symbol of precision and patience..."

He raised his hand, suppressing a smile.

"Yes, yes, exactly. I understand that you have read it" His eyes softened a little, conveying something between pride and nostalgia. "Our family has never had a decent archer. Not one. I want you to be the first"

There was a brief silence, and he looked up at the sky for a moment before continuing.

"I know the basics, what I learned in the army... nothing fancy, but it's enough to get you started. And I want you to start early. If you learn now, while you're young, you'll have time to become a master"

I nodded, feeling a strange warmth in my chest. My eyes sparkled with possibility, and a twinge of responsibility also made itself present. This wasn't just learning. It was a legacy.

"Archers are highly respected in the Empire" he continued, more serious now. "A good archer can be worth ten ordinary soldiers. But training one..." He shook his head regretfully. "It's expensive. And it takes time. A lot of time"

His eyes fell to my bandaged shoulder and then returned to my face.

"And since you're still recovering and can't demand too much of your body..." His voice softened. "The bow is the ideal place to start. It works more on focus, breathing, balance"

He paused, then approached me with a slight nod.

"Now, pay attention"

And I did. Every word, every gesture, every instruction from him. I had never seen my father like this: focused, patient — or at least trying to be. He showed me how to position my feet, how to hold the bow, how to breathe. He repeated the ten basic moves several times until I memorized them. I worked hard. I wanted him to be proud. I wanted to feel part of something bigger.

And, to my surprise, I succeeded. In less than ten minutes, I was doing everything naturally. He corrected me here and there, but overall, he seemed impressed. I remembered every phrase from the book, every illustration. It all made sense to me.

We spent the whole morning that way. Soldiers came and went, bringing more arrows, adjusting targets, observing from afar. I didn't care. I was in a trance. The bow became an extension of me, and every arrow I shot made me feel more... alive. I missed several, of course, but every hit made my heart beat faster. I fell in love. For real. Archery became a kind of addiction. A delicious drug I didn't want to quit.

And at that moment, with the sun starting to set between the trees, I realized something: maybe I was really different from my father. But maybe, just maybe, that wasn't a bad thing.

Gripping the bow with my left hand, I felt the polished wood against my palm, still a little cold from the forest's shade. With my right hand, I pulled the string, tense like a breath held in my chest. I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with the smell of damp earth and old leaves. As I exhaled, I released the air slowly, as if that could help my weak body align.

I extended my left arm forward, firm, and pulled the string back with my right, feeling the muscles in my legs, waist, and back contract in unison. It was as if my whole body was silently screaming, reminding me that I was still not healed — not completely. The ritual had drained my strength. But the light bow I was holding didn't demand much. It had been made specifically for beginners. Children.

Even so, when I loosened my fingers and the string snapped with a sharp sound, my heart raced. The arrow sliced through the air without making a sound and disappeared into the bushes, completely missing the target.

It wasn't impressive. Not beautiful. But to me... it was magical.

I sat on the ground, covered in dry leaves, feeling a warm exhaustion radiating from my arms to the rest of my body. It was as if my muscles were on fire — not just my arms, but my back, my neck, even my legs. Everything hurt. And it was all worth it.

"Let's head back. Your body's exhausted" my father said, approaching as he untied the horses.

I nodded silently. I was sleepy, slow, but happy. There was something comforting about being tired from something I wanted to do.

As we mounted, he continued, his voice firm and direct as always.

"As you practice, your body will mold itself to the bow" he said, his eyes fixed ahead. "If you master the stages of mastery, you can achieve meteoric success"

I straightened up a little, trying to keep up with the rhythm of the mount while absorbing every word. I had heard similar advice before, but the way he spoke carried a different weight—as if each sentence was a truth forged with blood and sweat.

"Warriors are divided into five classes" he continued.

"Preparatory, Initiate, Veteran, Commander, and Master of Combat"

He paused, and I took the opportunity to observe his countenance. There was a slight hardening of his jaw—a memory perhaps, or some pain he was holding back.

"All masters..." he resumed, in an almost reverent tone. "earned their title because they specialized in their main focus. Our second ancestor, for example, was a low-class master. Not for lack of effort... but because he divided his attention between several weapons. Sword, spear, bow, knives. His body never had time to adapt to any of them completely. His muscles grew unevenly. Incomplete"

I fell silent, processing it all. I had never heard that before.

"So... the ideal is to focus on just one thing?" I asked, hesitant, almost afraid of sounding naive.

He nodded slightly, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. The sun was now kissing the mountain ridge, and long shadows stretched out before us.

"Exactly. I learned that from observing many cases. Promising warriors, destroyed by their ambition to do everything. We mortals cannot restore the light of life. Not like the ancients. Every mistake along the way... costs dearly"

When we arrived at the castle, the sky was already beginning to turn golden with the colors of late afternoon. The courtyard was still quiet, but my mind was buzzing.

In my room, I found Benta waiting for me. She smiled, as she always did, but there was something more in her gaze — maybe pride. Or complicity. On the bed, two books were carefully stacked.

"They arrived today" she said. "With your allowance money"

My eyes widened. I hadn't even noticed she had used her savings. I touched the books with reverence. The first was about cooking — recipes, techniques, spices. The second was about carpentry — tools, types of wood, construction. My heart raced.

Those pages called to me.

And so began my days. In the morning, I practiced in the courtyard with the bow, alone or under my father's watchful eyes. In the afternoon, I dove into the books, learning about spices, knives, hammers, woods, measurements.

My father, noticing my hunger for learning, began bringing more things, more subjects. Maybe he didn't say it with words, but he was trying to understand me. And, little by little, I also started to understand who I was.

Maybe I would never be like him. But maybe... that too had its value.

Back then, I was just a child — innocent, dreamy, and, I admit, a little spoiled. My father had a harsh way of speaking, always firm in his decisions, but behind that rigid expression, there was a kindness that only those who truly knew him could see. I was fascinated by him. Every day that passed, I felt we were growing closer. Not just to him, but to everyone living under our roof. The house, once too big for a boy like me, was becoming a home full of familiar faces, comforting smells, and voices that filled the halls with life. They were happy times — maybe the happiest times I had ever lived.