Training under a goddess isn’t exactly a walk in the woods—more like a series of painful reminders that nature doesn’t care if you’re tired, sore, or on the verge of passing out. Artemis is relentless, her patience running thinner than the string of her bow. If you misstep, she’s quick to point it out. If you hesitate, she moves faster. If you complain—well, you learned not to after the first time she gave you that look.

"Survival doesn’t wait for you to be comfortable," she tells you, arms crossed as she watches you struggle to skin a rabbit. "You either adapt or you die."

She heard you grumble and bite back a curse as you fumble with the knife.

To your surprise, she huffs a quiet laugh. It’s barely there, but it softens something in her stance. And over time, the edges of her sharpness begin to dull—not in skill, not in discipline, but in the way she regards you. The critiques still come, but they’re less cutting. The lessons remain brutal, but there’s a careful watchfulness to them now, like she actually wants you to succeed, not just prove a point.

One night, after an exhausting day of tracking and setting traps, you find yourselves by a quiet stream. Artemis sits beside you, gaze turned skyward, where the moon casts its silver glow over the treetops. For once, there’s no sharp remark, no challenge in her tone when she speaks.

"You’re not bad," she admits, tilting her head slightly. "For a mortal."

Coming from her? It might as well be high praise.