The forest feels... still.

Not silent — not quite. There’s birdsong in the distance, the rustle of wind through the leaves, the creak of old boughs overhead. But something about this place makes it feel set apart from the world. Untouched. Waiting.

You step into the glade.

Glyndwr is already there.

He stands near the edge of the clearing, back straight, shoulders squared — not tense, just precise. His cloak shifts in the breeze, revealing a bow at his side — long, curved, and clearly not of human make. The wood gleams with a subtle, pale sheen, like moonlight caught in timber.

He turns when he hears you, eyes meeting yours without hesitation. Calm. Cool. Like he’s known you’d come.

“You’re on time. That’s a good start.”

He nods once, then gestures for you to step forward. His voice is even, unhurried, the tone of someone who expects to be listened to.

“This isn’t a soldier’s bow. Not something you draw in a panic or fire by instinct. You don’t force it. You understand it.”

He takes the bow into his hands, running a gloved thumb along the curve of the grip.

“Elven-made. Old. Older than me, by far. It won’t respond to strength. If you try to wrestle it, it’ll fight you every time.”

He offers it to you, holding it out across both palms.

“Go on. Take it.”

The moment your hands close around the grip, it feels different. Light, yes — but balanced in a way that forces focus. Like it knows it’s being held.

Glyndwr steps back, folding his arms as he watches you.

“Now listen. Your stance comes first. Center your weight. Loosen your shoulders. No tension.”

He pauses.

“Draw slow. Let the string settle. Don’t rush it. If your breathing’s uneven, the shot will wander.”

You nock the arrow. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink.

“Don’t think too much. That’s where most people go wrong. They try to aim with their mind, not their body.”

He tilts his head slightly.

“When you’re ready… loose.”

The string snaps forward. The arrow flies.

There’s a moment of silence. No praise, no criticism. Just Glyndwr’s eyes tracking where it lands. Then, he speaks.

“Not bad.”

He pauses, taking a breath.

“Again.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t explain more than he needs to. But in his stillness, in the weight of his attention, something is clear:

He’s watching. Measuring.