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?”

“Yes, Father.” Ul’rin was drooping, scuffing his foot against the dirt.

He was not ready to start again.

“Ul’rin.”

“Yes, Father?”

“You can say so if you’re tired.”

“I’m not tired.”

This was obviously a lie.

Lukios eyed him. Ul’rin was staring at his feet, refusing to look up and make eye contact. His shoulders were hunched over defensively and Lukios could see a thin sheen of sweat over his upper lip.

“Let’s try one more time. We can go in and get a drink after. Something cool.”

“Yes, Father.”

Lukios kept from sighing, though it was a near thing. He watched carefully as Ul’rin started twirling the sling again. There was nothing off about the movement, though whenever he released, the bullet just—

Ah-hah.

There. Just before he released the bullet. He was doing something with his hand—was it his thumb? Why was he doing that?

“Don't hook your thumb on the cord. Just these two.” Lukios held up his hand and wriggled his first two fingers.

“I'm not.”

“You are.”

“I'm not.”

Now that was a very disrespectful tone. Lukios bit back a sharp reply and took a deep, slow breath. He released it, then counted to three.

His son was just frustrated. Getting angry over his tone wouldn’t help, though Lukios did not want him to develop bad habits.

“Mind your tone,” he said, keeping his voice even. Ul’rin drooped even more. “Okay. I believe you. Maybe it was just a fluke this time. It's nearly lunch time, anyway. We can go back in once you pick up all your bullets.”

Lukios did not miss how Ul'rin's shoulders sagged with relief.

The sun had already climbed nearly to its zenith by the time Ul’rin gathered all his stray bullets and put them back into his pouch. Only the one thrown by Lukios was a lost cause—that one was lodged too deeply into the wood, and misshapen to boot. He had been a bit over-zealous.

They walked through the courtyard then through the doors and into the kitchen.

“Why don’t you wash up and then help me cook?”

“Yes, Father.”

Lukios watched him wander down the hall to the bathing room. It took some effort to keep the frown off his face.

Why was it so very hard to get along with Ul’rin?

Lukios turned away and finally let himself sigh. He started the fire first and then poured water into the basin to wash his hands and face. He wasn’t nearly as sweaty or disheveled as Ul’rin, but Ba’an hated it when he made food without washing up first. She was very particular about cleanliness still—well, he couldn’t blame her. She was right about most things, anyway. The thought of her peering up at him with that cute little wrinkle in her nose washed the frown away so he was smiling instead. He never tired of that expression. Ever.

Cheered by the thought of Ba'an's nose, he eyed the shelves, then opened the cellar door and went down.

He wasn’t quite sure what Ba’an wanted for lunch, but he was sure she wanted a sweet dessert. It was summer and the day was getting hot, so maybe something simple?

They had bread still left over from breakfast. Cheese, too. Did they have any smoked meat? He was sure they did. Ba'an always liked having something hot on the table, so they'd make some soup, too. Lunch would be simple enough, but the issue was dessert. Something sweet, but easy to make. If they'd had their own icebox, he could make her sweetened ice, but that was a luxury he could no longer afford.

Lukios felt a pang. Compared to everyone else in Asur, they lived well—almost too well, to the point that Lukios wondered if he ought to hire guards. But compared to when they had lived in [redacted], or even [redacted]?

It was a modest life.

Ba’an never complained. She always told him how happy she was, but sometimes Lukios wanted to give her something, only to realize he couldn't. Ul’rin and Ana had never had ice cream, so they couldn't miss it, but Ba’an did, though she never said so.

Of course, Ul’rin and Ana would love ice cream, too. They had both inherited her sweet tooth, though Ul’rin was shockingly measured for his age. Ana, if left to her own devices, would glut until she popped. His adorable little princess would become an adorable little ball, and then she'd go rolling here, there, everywhere instead of dashing about and making Ba'an dizzy, heheheh.

Lukios felt his mouth curl up even further at the comical mental image of his happy little girl as a brightly-painted follis with dark little pig-tails, bouncing around the courtyard as she cackled, I'm flying, papa, I'm flying! Ha. That was so damn cute, except no, haha, of course not; Ba'an would never let it happen, and really, the only thing that could realistically happen was that she'd lose all her teeth, but yeah, Ana would love ice cream.

Maybe next time they travelled to see Vaa’ti, they could take a detour—one of the big polis would have ice vendors, and it had been years since he'd been [redacted], never mind Lukios the Lion. If he dyed his hair, they could likely pass undetected as long as Ba’an called him Farhad.

But for now…

Lukios settled for making K’Avaari flatbread with honey folded in. It wasn’t cold, but it was fast and sweet.

By the time he came back up to the kitchen with everything he needed, Ul’rin had finished washing and was poking at the fire, trying to make it bigger. He had already filled the cauldron with water, and hung it over the flames, ready and waiting.

“Good work.”

Ul’rin flushed, this time with pleasure. “It wasn’t a big deal.” His mouth curved into a smile before he ducked his head down, suddenly shy. “Should I get Mama and Ana?”

“Not yet. Once you’re done with that, I need you over here to wash the vegetables.” Ba’an would kill him if he skipped that step. Somehow she could always taste it—the dirt, or so she said. Lukios always told her a little dirt never killed anyone, which was true—Lukios had turned out fine, and he'd definitely eaten more than one thing off the ground—but it was mostly to see her face go scrunchy. That pout sure was kissable, heh. Sometimes she was just so...ah. Well. Later. For now he'd have Ul'rin wash everything twice, though that wouldn't stop Lukios from teasing his wife later. Her expressions were little treasures, and besides, she liked it. Really—she'd married him, hadn't she? Of course she liked it, and she was definitely laughing.

On the inside.

They made the meal, and Lukios put the pan of flatbread and honey into the fire last. It would bake while they ate, and he would keep an eye on it so it would not burn. Ul’rin dashed down to the workroom without being told, eager to show off their work to his mama. The boy did adore his mother. That was good, it was great, and it always warmed him to see them together, but…

Wasn’t Lukios his father? Why was it that with each passing year, the distance between them seemed to widen? It seemed like yesterday when Ul’rin would fling himself into Lukios’ arms as soon as he stepped through the door, screaming “Papa!” with Ana as though it was a competition. When had he stopped?

Lukios frowned into the fire. It was true that Lukios was often gone for long stretches of time. It couldn’t be helped. Money was king, and Lukios wouldn’t let his family live in squalor. But even so, Ana seemed to adore him just as much as she ever had. Ul’rin, though…

When had he become so sulky and sullen?