Chapter 1
The boy’s breathing came quick and shallow, and his small hands trembled where they gripped the long rifle. The wild boar ahead poked through the ground with its nose, its sharp fur glistening with mud and tree bark.
Tristan’s brown hair shone in the sun as he placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder, as if to reassure or place undue pressure on him. Whichever one was going to get the work done.
“Steady, George,” he said, his tone even but clipped. “With things like this, you have to breathe through it. Keep your eyes on the animal. Do not blink or try to shift focus. Then you relax your shoulders and pull the trigger.”
The boy swallowed hard, but his elbows wavered. Tristan cleared his throat, his brown eyes watching the boar shift to a path that gave the boy a clearer shot.
“Now,” he ordered, and George snapped the trigger back.
The shot cracked through the clearing and across the leaves. The boar squealed and stumbled sideways before gaining its footing and vanished into the green wall of the footpath. George wanted to go after it, but Tristan gripped his shoulder. They both watched as a streak of blood marked the boar’s exit from sight.
“There is no point now, George. It is gone.”
George lowered the rifle with a startled gasp. “I-I thought—”
“It is all right,” Tristan said, stepping forward to watch the animal’s shadow finally disappear. “These things happen. You just have to prepare harder for the next one. And maybe try to focus even harder this time around.”
The boy’s mouth opened, but he closed it again. Tristan heaved a sigh and placed his hands on his hips, his fingers gripping the edges of his white shirt.
“I apologize, Lord Vale. I do not—”
“It is my fault,” Tristan said, cutting him off. “I thought you were ready and put too much on you.”
A muscle in George’s jaw jumped, and his eyes glistened. Tristan could see the tears beginning to gather below his lids, and he exhaled slowly.
“Oh, do not be like that, George. How old are you?”
“Thirteen, my lord.”
“In another world, you would already be leading a pack of men into war. You cannot afford to be weak, do you hear me? Emotions get the better of you. They make you reckless and force you into making rather poor decisions. You must put them down. Always.”
George swallowed, nodding gently at Tristan’s words.
“Do you hear me?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“A soldier’s greatest enemy is his feelings,” Tristan said, watching the boy’s face.
George nodded again.
Tristan sighed again. “Wipe your tears. We cannot have your mother grill you about this.”
“Grill him about what?” a third voice called from behind the tall rows of hedges at the edge of the clearing. They both turned at the same time and watched a figure step into view.
“Mrs. Andrews. How long have you been back there?” Tristan asked, clearing his throat.
“Just got here now, my lord,” the woman responded, her voice curt.
“Mother,” George greeted, still fidgeting with the rifle.
Mrs. Andrews stepped even closer to them, her apron brushed with flour and her greying red hair tucked in a neat bun.
“Might I make an inquiry as to what is going on here, my lord?” she asked, her eyes shifting from George and his rifle to Tristan and the calm smirk that settled on his face.
“Nothing, Mrs. Andrews,” he responded, his voice sharper than he intended. “I was only showing your young man here how to catch a boar.”
