Page 45 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
The arrow whips through the air and buries itself in the earth a foot to the left of the buck’s heart. The animal jolts, then vanishes in a thunder of hooves.
Raisa sags, her whole body deflating.
I ruffle her hair. “You were closer than last time.”
She glares at me, but I see the pride in her eyes.
We follow the tracks, moving faster now, ducking through brambles and old logs. The buck is bleeding—just enough to leave a trail behind.
Raisa sees the first drop, and her whole face changes.
“You did that,” I say, pointing at the tiny red bead on a leaf. “It means you’re a real hunter now.”
She grins, and I want to bite her.
We catch up with the animal in a shallow ravine, its legs trembling and its sides heaving. His flank is coated with blood. It’s not a clean shot by any means, but she hit it.
Raisa lifts the bow, then lowers it, hesitating. “I don’t want it to suffer,” she says, her voice shaking, a little of the old princess bleeding through.
“Then finish it,” I say.
She draws, breathes, and then fires. The arrow hits true, right behind the ear. The buck drops, dead before it hits the ground.
She stands over it, her bow at her side, her face pale and eyes wide. I come up behind her, my hand heavy on her shoulder.
“It’s good work,” I say.
“Is it always like this?” she asks, her whole body shaking.
I think about lying, but don’t. “Sometimes it’s worse.”
She doesn’t cry, just nods and swallows it down.
We kneel to claim the kill. I show her how to cut the throat, how to say thank you in a way that means something. She does it without flinching, her hands steady.
She’s changing before my eyes.
We’re about to drag the carcass up the bank when the wind shifts, and I smell them—three men, moving quickly.
My hackles go up, instinct kicking me in the ribs.
“Down,” I hiss, yanking Raisa behind a rotten log. I crouch over her, shielding her with my body, an arrow notched and ready.
The men come into view less than three minutes later, moving cautiously but not cautiously enough. They’re Gallagher’s men, all armed, all looking for something.
They stop at the ravine, staring down at the buck like it’s a sign from the gods.
The tallest one—the leader—points to the ground. “Fresh blood,” he says, his voice a whipcrack in the silence. “Whoever did it is close.”
Raisa tenses under me, her heart banging like a war drum. I want to kill the men here and now, but I force myself to wait.
I grip her hand hard. She looks up at me, her eyes huge and terrified.
“Don’t move,” I mouth.
She nods, but I can see the fight in her, the refusal to go quietly. She’s made a feast of freedom now, and she won’t go back to living on scraps.
The leader motions the other two forward. They spread out, one circling left, the other right. The leader stays put, scanning the woods. I can see the whites of his eyes from here.
