The rifle’s wooden stock feels cold in your hands, far too heavy for your liking. The forest smells of damp leaves and winter, and you can barely focus with Ed beside you, his voice low and patient.

“Rest the butt here, against your shoulder… like this,” he corrects gently, moving your arms with care. His deer-like eyes, warm and watchful, never leave you as he points toward the target on the other side of the clearing.

A few meters away, Thom sits on a fallen log, legs crossed, his old coat hiding the faint outline of his wings. The sly fox glint in his eyes watches you without a word, as if he already knows you’re either going to miss… or hit.

“Breathe… slowly,” Ed insists, his voice an anchor in the quiet.

You draw in a breath, feeling the rapid thump in the tips of your rabbit ears, and for a moment, it seems as though the whole forest is waiting with you.