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The training field is still half‑asleep.
Mist clings to the grass, the sky a pale grey‑blue that hasn’t quite decided to become morning yet. The camp is silent except for the soft creak of Chiron’s hooves as he moves across the dew‑wet ground.
Luke stands where he always stands during these private lessons — a little off to the side, arms folded, posture tight, eyes shadowed with something he won’t name.
They begin in Ancient Greek, as always.
“Ἕτοιμος, Λουκᾶ?”
Ready, Luke?
“Ναί,” Luke answers, though his voice is distant.
Sword drills.
Footwork.
Translation.
Breathing exercises.
Luke moves with precision, but his focus keeps drifting.
His eyes flick toward the archery range more than once.
Chiron notices.
He always does.
After a while, he lowers his clipboard.
“Τί σε ἀπασχολεῖ?”
What troubles you?
Luke freezes mid‑stance.
He swallows, eyes dropping to the ground.
“I…”
He hesitates.
His fingers twitch at his sides.
Chiron waits.
Luke takes a breath — shallow, shaky — and forces the words out before he can lose his nerve.
“Μποροῦμε… νὰ δοκιμάσουμε τὴν τοξοβολία σήμερα?”
Can we… try archery today?
Chiron blinks, surprised.
He had long accepted Luke’s refusal to practice archery.
Luke always explained the mechanics perfectly, always taught the younger campers flawlessly — and always let Chris fire the demonstration arrow.
Chiron had assumed Luke simply preferred the sword.
“Ἀληθῶς?”
Truly?
Luke nods once, jaw tight.
Chiron studies him for a moment, then gestures toward the range.
“Φυσικά.”
Of course.
He leads Luke toward the archery rack. The bows hang neatly, glistening with morning dew. Luke reaches for one, then pauses — not out of fear, but out of unfamiliarity. He has avoided this for so long that even touching the bow feels strange.
Chiron watches quietly.
Luke finally takes the bow.
He nocks the arrow the way he always has — palm outward, grip reversed, posture instinctive and unusual.
Chiron’s brows lift slightly.
He has never seen Luke shoot.
Never seen this grip.
Never seen this stance.
But he says nothing.
Instead, he steps behind Luke and adjusts only what needs adjusting — his shoulders, his balance, the angle of his elbow.
“Εὔγε,” he murmurs.
Good.
“Τώρα ἀνάπνεε.”
Now breathe.
Luke inhales.
Exhales.
Draws the bowstring back.
His arms tremble — not from weakness, but from the weight of finally doing something he has avoided for years.
He releases.
The arrow flies straight.
Clean.
True.
It hits the center ring with a sharp, perfect thunk.
Luke stares.
Chiron’s eyes widen — just a fraction — before a warm smile spreads across his face.
“Ὁρᾷς?” he says softly.
You see?
“Δύνασαι.”
You can.
Luke doesn’t smile.
He doesn’t speak.
But something in his expression shifts — a tiny spark of disbelief, of pride, of finally.
Chiron steps beside him.
“Λουκᾶ,” he says gently, “ποτέ δὲν ἐνόμισα ὅτι ἀδυνατεῖς.”
Luke, I never believed you incapable.
Luke swallows.
He draws another arrow.
And in the quiet morning light, with no one watching but Chiron,
he tries again.