J?kob awoke late the following day; the exhaustion of the five-day vigil by the steam-box had finally claimed its debt. He rolled from his mattress, his joints stiff but his spirit light. As he dressed, his eyes drifted to the corner where the new bow stood. The dark walnut stain and the intricate dragon carving seemed to pulse in the morning light. He slung the quiver over his shoulder and descended to the kitchen: he made short work of a breakfast of thick-cut bacon, eggs, and bread slathered in fresh-churned butter. Throughout the meal, he did not look away from the weapon; it was the first thing he had ever truly built with his own hands.

  Once the chores were satisfied, Matáo led J?kob to the clearing behind the barn to test the limb's strength. He had prepared a target of tightly bound straw, a dense cylinder designed to stop a man-killing arrow without splintering the shaft. Matáo paced out twenty long strides, marking the ground with the heel of his boot.

  J?kob stepped to the line, his fingers trembling slightly as he notched his first arrow. The draw was a revelation. Where his old bow had been a supple toy, this ash-stave was a stubborn beast: it required every ounce of his new-found strength to pull the string to his cheek. He held his breath, the world narrowing to the gold-tinted straw of the target. He loosed. The arrow did not wobble or arc; it hissed through the air in a flat, violent line and thudded into the center of the mark. He loosed four more in rapid succession, his speed increasing with every shot. Each shaft found its home. The labor of the past week had been worth the blisters; the bow was an extension of his own will.

  By midday, the brothers were joined by Nìa and the Kiltzka trio for a celebratory picnic. They climbed the familiar path above the falls, seeking the sanctuary of the Great Sycamore. The air was crisp with the turn of the season; the sun provided a deceptive warmth while the breeze carried the biting chill of the high peaks. Nìa and Jessie had prepared a spread of cold meats and cheeses, which they enjoyed around a small, contained fire.

  As they ate, J?kob regaled the twins with the story of the bow’s creation. Joel listened with rapt attention, his eyes wide at the mention of the steam-box, though Jessie seemed more interested in the tart berries than the minutia of ash-wood shaping. Once the meal was finished, they doused the fire with water from a pail J?kob kept hidden in the hollow of the tree. The girls began their descent back to the village, while the four boys checked their strings; it was time for a proper hunt.

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  Matáo and Jonah moved toward the stream to check the soft mud for tracks, while J?kob and Joel pushed upstream. It was J?kob who found the prize. Amidst the prints of fox and raccoon, a set of deep, heavy indentations marked the mud. The tracks were sharp and fresh; a large buck had likely been drinking here just before their arrival.

  They followed the trail onto an old game-path, moving with the practiced silence of a shadow. A hundred paces into the timber, they spotted him. The buck was a titan of the woods, grazing on acorns in a small, sun-dappled clearing. The boys split into two teams: J?kob and Matáo veered right, while Jonah and Joel circled left to flank the beast. Jonah raised his bow, but Matáo gently placed a hand on Jonah’s bow to stay his shot and pointed at the others.

  They closed the distance until J?kob had the clear angle. He raised the Dragon’s Heart, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He had only ever hunted small game; a stag of this size felt like a mountain. A bead of sweat traced a path down his nose as the buck lifted its head, its nostrils flaring. J?kob loosed. The arrow flew true, piercing the beast’s side. The buck leapt, a violent surge of muscle and fur, before vanishing into the thicket.

  They waited a half-hour to let the wound take its toll before tracking the crimson trail. They found the stag three hundred paces away, collapsed in a patch of briars where its journey had ended. Matáo and Jonah set about the grim, necessary work of dressing the meat, while J?kob and Joel searched for a sturdy pole. They lashed the carcass to the timber with lengths of wild vine and began the heavy trek back toward Echo.

  By the time they reached the stream near the Sycamore, the wind had grown fierce. They stopped to rest their aching shoulders and build a small fire to ward off the encroaching cold. They sat in the fading light, laughing and congratulating J?kob on his first true kill; the boy felt a sense of belonging he had never known.

  As the fire burned low, J?kob sent Joel to the stream to refill the pail. They needed to ensure the embers were dead before they returned home for supper. Joel handed the water to J?kob, but as the boy prepared to pour, he froze.

  The wind had shifted. It didn't carry the scent of damp leaves or pine; it carried the acrid, heavy stench of burning thatch and scorched timber.

  “Do you smell that, Joel?” J?kob whispered, his blood turning cold.

  He turned his gaze toward the valley. The sun was low, but it wasn't the orange of the sunset that dominated the horizon. A thick, roiling column of black smoke was rising from the heart of the village. The "amphitheater" of Echo was glowing with a jagged, unnatural light.

  “Nìa!” J?kob screamed, the pail clattering against the stones as he bolted toward the cliff’s edge.