The arena had become silent at dusk, immersed in a surreal calm that seemed to amplify every faint sound. Gliomede Capobianco was in the polygon section, his favorite spot in Lilies Park. The sharp scent of burnt hemp rope, arrows lodged in the wood, and the dusty ground filled his nostrils. That smell, combined with the silence, was reassuring, almost hypnotic.
The son of Ione lifted his gaze toward the target, about fifty meters away. The center, marked by a vivid red circle, seemed to challenge him, pulsing in his mind like an irresistible call. Despite his aim being considered perfect by all his brothers, he continued to practice with stubbornness.
Only this way can I become infallible. I will make you proud, mother.
It wasn't just a matter of perfection; it was an obligation, part of his daily routine, a way to calm his restless mind and find balance.
He closed his eyes for a moment, clenching his jaw.
He inhaled deeply, counting in his mind.
Eight… seven… six…
The numbers flowed, each one paced with precision. As he counted, he felt the world around him dissolve. His mind emptied, making room for absolute calm.
Five… four… three… two… one… zero…
Normally, common thought would have interpreted that countdown as an ultimatum, which would end with the release of the arrow.
Minus one… minus two… minus three… minus four… minus five…
That was his mantra. Zero was just a midpoint.
Minus six… minus seven… minus eight…
Once he reached that number, he began to climb back up, as if the cycle were nothing but a pendulum. He moved to the right, then to the left, bringing his balance back to center.
When he reached eight again, his breathing was slow and steady.
He extended his arm, allowing his right hand to brush against his personal bow, temporarily resting on the rack. The polished wood had a warm, familiar texture under his fingers. Each grain told stories of battles and victories, of trials overcome with effort. It was a weapon passed down from representative to representative, a symbol of command for the children of Ione.
He lifted it gently and observed it in the soft light of the arena, while he felt the mana begin to flow through the pores of his skin.
The process was natural, but no less intense. The mana infiltrated slowly, like a fine current entering the surface of his body and sliding into his veins. Gliomede felt it as a spreading tingling, gradually concentrating toward his sternum. The divine core, the center of his power, pulsed softly, an almost imperceptible knot that could be felt even in his throat. He held his breath for a moment as the mana accumulated, then exhaled deeply, emptying himself.
The calm enveloped him like an invisible cloak, covering his head like a hood. He bent slightly to grab an arrow from the quiver at his side. His fingers closed around the smooth wood, gripping it securely. The arrow felt cold, but that coldness was not unpleasant; it was natural, reflecting the attitude every hunter must maintain toward their prey. He closed his eyes once more and focused the mana in the palm of his hand, letting it flow into the wooden shaft.
The arrow began to glow, first with a faint gleam, then with an increasingly intense silvery light. Gliomede felt a small vibration along the shaft of the arrow, as if the energy within it was about to overflow.
Perfect, he thought, watching the shimmering metal as if it were on the verge of exploding. The magic he had infused into the weapon seemed alive, ready to respond to his command.
With a fluid motion, he nocked the arrow and raised the bow. The wood creaked slightly as he drew the string, but the sound had never bothered him. On the contrary, it was a reminder of his control, of the strength he held in his hands.
He aimed at the target, his eyes fixed on the red center.
The distance meant nothing to him; he was used to hitting targets even one hundred meters farther during his most frantic training sessions, when he wanted to simulate a battle situation. Yet, every shot had to be considered as a test unto itself, an opportunity to prove his worth.
One day I will join the Equinox Flowers, he promised himself, drawing the bow to its fullest.
The silver arrow seemed to burn between his fingers, ready to be released. Gliomede was tired of being just a sentinel.
Seven years, I've been here for seven years.
He had given everything for the park, working tirelessly, and felt he deserved more. If they decided to reject his request to join the elite group, then they would have to recognize his value in another way.
Leader of the patrol: a role that reflects my dedication. Yes. I deserve it.
He inhaled deeply one last time, letting every doubt dissipate. Then, with a decisive motion, he released the string.
The arrow shot forward with a lightning-fast snap, slicing through the air with a sharp hiss. The silvery glow left a bright trail, a perfect arc that seemed suspended in time. Gliomede followed its flight with his gaze, holding his breath as the arrow struck the precise center of the target.
A sharp sound shattered the silence of the arena: the wood yielding to the strike with surgical precision. The arrow remained there, still and beautiful, like a symbol of his talent. A moment later, the light surrounding it shone brightly, but he had no intention of calling it back. He let it fade slowly, allowing it to return to its original form.
Gliomede lowered the bow and allowed a satisfied expression to cross his face.
It was a perfect shot, as always, but it wasn't enough.
It was never enough.