"It is a mechanism," he counters. "It requires rhythm. Breathe in." I inhale. The cold air stings my lungs. "Breathe out." I exhale. The gun settles slightly. "At the bottom of the breath... in the pause between the exhale and the inhale... that is your moment. That is the silence between the notes."
He presses his body against my back. His left hand comes around my waist, grounding me. "Find the silence, Elodie. And then... press. Don't pull. Press."
I focus. The log on the stump blurs. I focus on the front sight.Breathe in.Breathe out.The pause. The world stops spinning. The wind seems to die down. I squeeze my index finger. Smooth. Slow.
CRACK.
The sound is violent. It rips through the serenity of the forest like a thunderclap. The gun kicks in my hand, jumping up, the recoil shocking my wrists. I blink, stunned by the violence ofit. The smell of burnt gunpowder—sulfur and ash—fills my nose instantly.
"Missed," Alaric notes dryly. He points to the snow, three feet to the left of the stump. A small black hole marks the impact. "You anticipated the recoil. You pushed the gun down right before the break."
"It’s loud," I defend, my ears ringing.
"Death usually is," he says without sympathy. "Again."
We spend an hour in the snow. My hands go numb. My shoulders ache with a dull, throbbing pain that rivals the soreness between my legs.Bang.Miss.Bang.Miss.Bang.A chip of bark flies off the stump.
"Hit," Alaric says. He doesn't cheer. He just nods. "Again."
It is grueling. It is monotonous. But it is also intoxicating. With every shot, the fear of the weapon diminishes. It stops being a foreign object and starts becoming an extension of my will. I start to understand what Alaric meant about the rhythm.Load. Rack. Aim. Breathe. Fire.It is a loop. A cadence.
And watching Alaric... that is a lesson in itself. He is clearly in pain. I see the way his jaw tightens when he moves too fast. I see the sweat beading on his upper lip despite the freezing temperature. But he never sits down. He never takes his hand out of his pocket to cradle it. He stands guard, scanning the tree line, watching the perimeter, watching me.
"Break," he finally says, after I empty the fourth magazine.
I lower the gun, exhaling a cloud of steam. My arms are trembling. "Did I pass?"
"You didn't shoot your foot off," he says, taking the gun from me. He ejects the empty magazine and checks the chamber with one hand—a practiced, fluid motion. "So, you passed Level One."
He hands the empty gun back to me. "Reload it. Keep it holstered. We’re going to walk the perimeter."
"Alaric, you need to rest," I say, looking at his pale face. "Your hand..."
"My hand is attached," he snaps, then softens. He sighs, running his good hand through his wind-blown hair. "I need to check the sensors, Elodie. The storm knocked out the remote feed. I can't rest until I know the circle is unbroken."
"I'll come with you."
"That wasn't a request. You are my shadow now."
He grabs his rifle from where he leaned it against a tree. He slings it over his left shoulder. "Stay behind me. Step where I step. The snow hides holes, roots... and traps."
We leave the clearing, entering the dense forest. The light changes instantly. Under the canopy of the giant pines, the world is a twilight blue. The snow is shallower here, protected by the branches, but the silence is deeper. It feels like walking into a cathedral. A cold, indifferent cathedral.
We walk for twenty minutes. Alaric stops at small metal boxes mounted on trees—the thermal sensors. He checks the lights. He brushes off the snow. "Green," he mutters at the third one. "System is active. It was just signal interference from the blizzard."
"So we're safe?" I ask, stepping over a fallen log.
"Safe is a relative term," he says, moving to the next tree. "But we are alone."
I relax slightly. The tension that has been coiling in my stomach loosens. We are alone. Just the snow, the trees, and us. I look at Alaric’s back. The broad shoulders. The leather jacket. He is a monster, yes. But out here, in the wild, he makes sense. He fits. And strangely, I feel like I fit too. The porcelain doll Elodie would have frozen to death in ten minutes. The new Elodie—the one with the gun on her hip—is breathing the cold air and feeling alive.
"Alaric," I say softly. He pauses, turning to look at me. "What?"
"Thank you."
He frowns, confused. "For what? Making you freeze your fingers off?"
"For giving me the gun," I say. "For trusting me with it."
