A/N: Not entirely sure where I'm going to go with this in the end, but I have a general idea... I hope you enjoy the prologue! Also, please keep in mind that even though this story is labeled under the Romance/Adventure genres, Friendship & Hurt/Comfort are also major genres, as well. The romance is a bit of a slowburn, just fyi. :)

Feedback is always appreciated!

Until the next chapter,

-Dev

"...Just close your eyes,
the sun is going down
You'll be alright,
no one can hurt you now..."
—"Safe and Sound" by Taylor Swift

┄┄※┄┄

"To survive these woods, Miyo, you have to be as strong as the trees," Father once told me. The memory is a whisper compared to the attention my cramping stomach demands.

I try not to think of him, or my trembling legs, as I dust my boot prints from the path with a broken branch. Every starved scrap of me begs to stop and hunt here on the foot trail in the Jukai Woods. Only the danger of getting caught propels me forward, boots stumbling over rocks and dirt.

Weak as I am, I won't make it through the craggy mountains to where the capital lie's in the basin. It's a two-day walk. Two long, grueling days. Spots dance in my vision. Seeds, I need food. Father's old training spot will have to do. The king's guard, the eyes over the royal city, aren't likely to catch me there. Through a pinched, rocky canyon, the remote site has only been used by me and Father. A spasm racks my insides, and the decision is made. To the practice clearing.

The sun is halfway to its peak when I stumble into the glade. Heady, sweet pine scents the brisk air. The leaves on the white-barked quaky trees around the lake glow like embers, fiery gold and auburn against the evergreens. The sight is a warm welcome home.

Though starved and here to hunt, I cannot stop myself from finding their tree and tracing the carved symbols that made up their name: Daizen & Arisa.

Nor can I swallow the emotions that lump in my throat. Since my mother died during childbirth and Father passed two months ago, I've kept the pressing loneliness at bay, managing it in little pieces. But this morning, it's like isolation up and walloped me in the face.

I swipe a sneak tear away and ready an arrow to my bow.

My lanky body resembles a walking skeleton for how thin I've become. Not much will change my paleness, but catching a squirrel or grouse will satisfy my hunger. Something to strengthen me. Later, I'll bag a larger beast. Winter's not too far off, and I desperately need a decent kill to trade for lodging. The king's guard will soon seize my land—no, Father's land—now that my mourning period is nearly over.

I pull on my bowstring, testing the pressure, needing to shoot something. Anything. To keep a Kouka tradition: home isolation for two months of mourning; I nearly starved, and now must break the law, since no one brought food after Father died. Never a kindness for me—Miyo—daughter of Daizen, a once high ranking military official within the Crimson Dragon Palace, who was stripped of his title due to disagreeing with the emperor's brother, Lord Yu-Hon, over a military matter long since forgotten.

With a huff, I push down the anger and focus on the hunt.

That's when I discover the print of an elk hoof, two half-circles with pointed ends. The moisture puddling inside the tracks reveals that the elk was here recently. My pulse quickens at the promise of a good catch as I stand stiller than a tree, listening for the creature's movements. Birds whistle; leaves swish. All normal sounds of the Jukai Woods, but something is...off. That something abruptly tugs inside me, and an invisible finger skitters unease up the back of my neck.

I'm not alone.

My jade eyes ricochet from the branches to the shrubs to the sky, seeing everything and nothing. I spin around, expecting to meet the king's guards. I bite my lip. Swipe ghostly blonde strands of hair out of my face.

Who else could be here?

No one dares hazard a hunt this close to the capital. Hunting is only ever permitted where royal land ends. That's two days west in the Bloodwood firs or three-and-a-half days south. On a rare day, poaching will get a man whipped or tortured. Most days, death.

I clench my bow and push myself to search for signs of an intruder: broken tree limbs, prints in the soil. It's frustrating to abandon the elk hunt, but "safety ensures survival"—Father's first lesson.

An hour of combing the underbrush passes before the strange sensation disappears. Which, in a way, is more unsettling, since my instincts have never led me astray. Hunting without Father has put me on edge. Maybe being alone—

A shadow shifts a few lengths ahead.

I dash behind a rotted trunk. My fingers contract and relax around the bow's well-worn grip. Flex. Release. Father would clap my ear for acting like a skittish girl. "Stay in control," he'd say. "Focus is a weapon as much as your bow."

I draw a breath, slow and calm, and force myself to lean away from the decaying wood to get a look.

Whatever I was expecting to see, it wasn't a bull elk. A king of the forest, he struts into the glade. Proud shoulders, sturdy haunches. It takes a beat to remember this elk means my survival. From where I'm crouched, the angle makes for a tricky shot. One knuckle-width too high or low will hit bone or cartilage, seriously wounding but not killing. Torturing, even, if my aim is off.

I shoot.

The arrow thunks deep into creature's chest, impaling the vitals in a killing blow. The elk starts, jerks to a run, staggering a few steps before his eyes roll white. He thuds to the needle-covered ground.

I stare blindly at the beast, my bow arm falling to my side. A touch of sadness, a trickle of unworthiness beats through me as blackbirds flap out of the branches. An absurd reaction for a huntress, I know. His husky, labored breaths echo, to which I whisper shapeless, calming words as the beast accepts its death. The life left in the animal struggles, a ravaged soldier fighting his way off the battlefield, having no hope of survival.

My grip tenses over the intricate etchings on Father's dagger, my knuckles a match to the ivory handle. I forced the blade to the animal's belly to begin gutting and quartering.

Stick to the task, Miyo. Cut through the fur, slice the skin, roll out the innards...

I'm good at pressing forward—always pressing onward.

While some elk is curing and drying, other pieces roast over a small fire. It's the same way Father prepared the meat from my first kill seven years prior, when I was five-years-old. He laughed when I took a bite and grimaced from the gamy taste. "Nothing better than this dinner right here," he said. "Because you caught it. Now, I know you can do it again." His praise didn't come as often as his lessons. When it did, I treasured every word.

I chew the last sinewy bite and pull my threadbare blanket from my satchel. The cloak of night cinches around the forest. Chilly air sneaks through the blanket's weave and nips at my arms. And still, the evening is better than any I've had since Father passed. Stomach sated, I settle onto a bed of needles.

If only he could see me now, surviving on my own.

Sleep steals me away in seconds.