The shooting range hums with life—sharp bursts of gunfire punctuating the air, the scent of gunpowder lingering beneath the crisp morning breeze. All around, competitors prepare, adjusting their stances, checking their weapons, exchanging murmured words of encouragement. Her focus is entirely on the two young girls standing in front of her, their small hands tightening into fists at their sides.

She can see it—the nerves buzzing. They’ve trained for this, practiced until their hands ached, until they could recite safety procedures in their sleep. But knowing the mechanics, the breath control, the perfect stance—none of that prepares you for the weight of your first real competition. It’s different when you’re standing on the line, when all eyes feel like they’re on you, when the pressure coils in your chest.

She kneels beside them. She doesn’t speak right away. Words wouldn’t do much now—instead, she places a firm, grounding hand on each of their backs, fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of their shooting vests.

The older of the two—Abigail is the first to react, rolling back her shoulders in an attempt to mask her nerves, trying to mimic the same quiet confidence she’s seen in her mother a hundred times before. Stubborn, just like Grayson.

The younger—Rebecca, is different. She doesn’t carry herself with that same outward defiance, doesn’t try to force down her nerves with sheer willpower. Instead, she shifts closer, unconsciously leaning into the warmth of Grayson’s touch, seeking comfort rather than denying the fear.

She squeezes their shoulders—just once, firm and sure—before finally standing. No grand speech, no last-minute instructions. They already know what they need to do.

As they step toward the firing line, weapons in hand, she watches them go—not as an enforcer, but as a mother. The same mother who helped them hold a training pistol for the first time, who guided their hands when they struggled with their grip, who held them close when frustration made their small bodies shake.