The Stormcrow Cycle [Slow-burn Slice-of-Life Tragic Fantasy Romance]

"The Colour of Dusk in Summer" Snippet Part III

Finally, a chapter from Lukios' POV!

Again, this is no longer canon, and this work is quite old--don't be too surprised if Book II Lukios ends up sounding somewhat different, which is a real possibility (maybe!). FYI, I've redacted a few sections I thought could be spoilerish. 

A is a type of air-filled (purportedly) ball used by the ancient Greeks (edit: and the Romans; follis is Latin, not Greek) for various ball games.

 
Anyway, I swear I only meant to proofread, but that became line editing, which then became light content editing...Yeah, I still have the editing bug, lol. Hope it amuses! 

Happy reading! 

--- 

The bullet thudded into the fence post—nearly five meters away from the target.

Ul'rin hunched his shoulders, glaring sullenly at the wooden effigy as though it had betrayed him somehow.

"That...could have been worse. Try again."

Lukios stood watching his son fail over and over and over.

He couldn't quite understand what was going wrong here.

"Okay. Let's take a break and try again."

Lukios handed him a waterskin. Ul'rin fumbled with the stopper, finally managing to get it the fourth time, and drank. He tipped his head back too quickly, and water sloshed over his chin and down his chest. He coughed, flushing bright red.

"Slow down there, kid. There's no rush."

"Yes, Father." Ul'rin wiped the water off his chin with his sleeve, cheeks flaming.

His tone was still distinctly sullen.

Lukios picked up the sling and put a bullet in the pouch. It was a fine sling. There wasn't anything wrong with the length or the width, and the weaving was perfectly even. Lukios had made it himself, sized for Ul'rin's height and strength during a rare summer lull. It had tested well, but Ul'rin was struggling. Lukios moved his wrist, letting the bullet swing back and forth gently, getting a good feel for the movement. It was a boy's sling, and it wasn't sized for a grown man. Even so—

Lukios pulled it over his head, twirled once, and loosed; he never trained seriously anymore, but the body never forgot. The timing was perfect, and the bullet lodged into the wooden target with a satisfying thunk. Lukios had carved it to look like a man, and he had nearly taken the head clean off. He would have, if he had been using his own sling with real bullets meant for war; the short length of Ul'rin's made Lukios' preferred forms impossible.

Well, there was nothing wrong with the sling.

Hm.

It wasn't stiffness, either—Ul'rin had finally graduated to moving with the throw, keeping his joints loose. But for whatever reason, the boy only hit his target something like once every ten tries, and that was being generous; sometimes the throws went so wide and off target that Lukios couldn't even find the bullet. It was as if his son had no sense for movement, like his eyes and body just couldn't quite get the knack for working together. It was utterly confounding. How could he not feel it when the bullet wanted to fly? Did his gut not flutter?

Lukios had never had this much trouble with a sling, even as a boy. He'd started shooting stationary targets when he was five. By the time he was Ul'rin's age, he'd hit something like three or four out of five targets—moving ones. He'd been knocking birds out of the sky for dinner by the time they'd left Er.

This target was still. Utterly still. And it was big.

Why was he having so much trouble?

"Ready to start again?"