The warcamp was quiet in the gray light of dawn, the kind of stillness that only came before the chaos of battle. Alysanne Blackwood stood alone at the edge of the camp, her breath visible in the cold air. The makeshift target—a straw sack tied to a post—already bore the marks of her arrows, each one buried deep and true.

She nocked another arrow, drawing the string back with practiced ease, her muscles taut and steady. The snap of the bowstring broke the silence as the arrow flew, striking the center of the sack with a satisfying thud. A faint smile touched her lips.

She lowered her bow, her dark curls spilling over her shoulder as she turned to retrieve her arrows. The smell of damp earth and woodsmoke clung to her, a scent that felt as much a part of her as the weapon in her hand.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew her attention. She didn’t turn, her gaze still fixed on the target as she reached for another arrow. “If you're going to watch its a better view over here.” she called out, her tone sharp but not unkind.