Chapter 112 Damon's First Hunt

Chapter 112 Damon's First Hunt
Damon had been waiting for this day since he could walk.

The pack's traditions were clear: at six years old, a child was old enough to join their first hunt. Not as a hunter, not yet, but as a participant, a learner, someone who would watch and listen and begin to understand what it meant to provide for the pack. The actual killing would be done by the adults, the child's role limited to observing and perhaps tracking, but the experience itself was a rite of passage, a threshold crossed.

Damon had been counting down the days for months, waking each morning with the same question: "Is it time yet?" Each time, Elara or Caleb would remind him that the hunt was held in the autumn, when the deer were fat and the weather was cool, and that he would have to be patient. Damon tried to be patient. He really did. But patience had never been his strongest quality.

Caleb began the training weeks before the hunt, taking Damon into the forest for short lessons that gradually grew longer and more demanding. He taught his son to walk quietly, to read the wind, to recognize the signs of passing deer—tracks and droppings and nibbled branches. He taught him to control his breathing, to still his restless energy, to wait.

" Hunting is mostly waiting," Caleb explained, as they crouched behind a fallen log, watching a clearing where deer sometimes came to feed. "You can't rush it. You can't force it. You have to be patient, and you have to be ready."

Damon nodded, his eyes fixed on the clearing, his small body vibrating with the effort of staying still. A bird landed nearby, cocked its head at them, and flew away.

"How long do we have to wait?" he whispered.

"As long as it takes."

Damon sighed, the sound barely audible, and settled in to wait.

\---

Elara watched them from the cabin window, her heart caught between pride and sorrow. Damon was growing up so fast, faster than she had expected, faster than she was ready for. It seemed like yesterday that he was a baby in her arms, shifting into a wolf cub before his first moon, his blue eyes blinking up at her with that ancient, knowing gaze. Now he was six, tall for his age, with his father's steady hands and his mother's stubborn chin.

"He's going to do fine," Ayla said from her spot on the floor, where she was building a tower out of wooden blocks. She was four now, her words clear and confident, her personality already fully formed. "Damon's good at everything."

"Not everything," Elara said, turning from the window. "But he's good at the things that matter."

Ayla's tower wobbled, stabilized, and grew taller. "When can I go on a hunt?"

"When you're six. Like Damon."

"That's so far away."

"Time moves faster than you think." Elara crossed to the cradle where the baby—the newest addition, a boy they had named Kael—was sleeping peacefully. "One day you'll be six, and I'll be watching you walk into the forest, and I'll wonder where the years went."

Ayla considered this, then returned her attention to her blocks. "I'm going to catch the biggest deer."

" I'm sure you will."

\---

The morning of the hunt arrived clear and cold, the sky a pale autumn blue, the leaves turning gold and red. Damon was up before dawn, dressed and waiting by the door, his small pack slung over his shoulder. Inside the pack were the essentials his father had taught him to carry: water, dried meat, a small knife, a length of rope.

Elara knelt in front of him, adjusting his collar, smoothing his hair. "You know what to do?"

"Listen to Papa. Stay quiet. Watch the wind. Be patient."

"And?"

"And come back." He looked at her with those blue eyes, so like his father's, and for a moment he seemed much older than six. "I'll always come back, Mama."

She pulled him into a hug, holding him tighter than she meant to, breathing in the smell of him—soap and grass and little boy. "I know you will. I'll be here when you return."

Caleb appeared in the doorway, his own pack ready, his bow slung across his back. "Ready?"

Damon nodded, pulling away from his mother's embrace. "Ready."

They walked out together, father and son, disappearing into the trees. Ayla came to stand beside Elara, watching them go.

"He's going to be fine," she said.

"I know." Elara wiped her eyes, surprised to find them wet. "I know."

\---

The forest was different in the early morning, full of shadows and secrets and the soft sounds of creatures waking. Damon walked close to his father, stepping where Caleb stepped, trying to make his feet as quiet as his father's. It was harder than it looked. Every fallen branch seemed to crack under his weight, every pile of leaves rustled with his passing.

Caleb did not criticize or correct. He simply walked, and Damon followed, learning through imitation.

They reached the hunting grounds just as the sun was clearing the treetops. Other hunters were already there—Theron, Finn, a few others whose names Damon knew but whose faces he was still learning. They greeted Caleb with nods and quiet words, then turned their attention to the task at hand.

A scout had reported a herd of deer in the valley below, perhaps two dozen animals, including several young bucks whose meat would be tender and whose hides would be soft. The challenge would be approaching without being seen or scented, getting close enough for a clean shot.

Caleb gathered the hunters in a circle, speaking in low tones, assigning positions. Damon listened, trying to absorb everything, trying to remember the plan.

"You'll stay with me," Caleb said, resting a hand on his son's shoulder. "You'll watch, and you'll learn, and when the time comes, you'll help."

Damon nodded, his heart pounding with excitement and nerves.

\---

The stalk took hours.

They moved slowly, carefully, pausing whenever the wind shifted, waiting whenever a deer raised its head. Damon's legs ached from crouching. His back hurt from staying low. His eyes burned from staring at the same patch of forest for what felt like forever.

But he did not complain. He did not fidget. He did not ask how much longer.

He waited.

Caleb watched him from the corner of his eye, a quiet pride warming his chest. His son was learning. His son was growing. His son was becoming the hunter he had dreamed of teaching.

The deer appeared near midday, a small buck with a rack of antlers still covered in velvet. It was young, inexperienced, separated from the herd by curiosity or chance. Perfect.

Caleb signaled to the other hunters, wordless gestures that Damon had learned over weeks of practice. They moved into position, surrounding the buck, cutting off its escape.

The buck sensed something wrong. It raised its head, nostrils flaring, eyes scanning. But it could not see the hunters, still hidden in the trees, still downwind, still patient.

Caleb drew his bow.

Damon watched, barely breathing, as his father aimed and released. The arrow flew straight and true, striking the buck behind the shoulder, piercing its heart. The animal staggered, took two steps, and fell.

The hunters waited a long moment, ensuring the buck was dead, then emerged from their hiding places.

"Go," Caleb said, nudging Damon forward. "Your first kill."

Damon walked to the buck, his legs trembling, his heart pounding. The animal's eyes were open, glassy, staring at nothing. Its chest was still, its breathing stopped.

He placed a hand on its flank, feeling the warmth still radiating from its body, and said the words his father had taught him.

"Thank you for your life. Thank you for your meat. Thank you for your hide. We will not waste you."

The other hunters gathered around, their congratulations quiet and respectful.

"First blood," Theron said, nodding at Damon. "Not many get their first kill at six."

Damon looked up at his father, his eyes bright with tears and pride. "We did it together."

"We did." Caleb rested a hand on his son's shoulder. "But you did the waiting. That's the hardest part."

\---

The return to the village was a procession.

The hunters carried the buck on a pole, its legs tied, its body swaying with their steps. Damon walked at the front, beside his father, his head high, his heart full. He had done it. He had really done it.

Word of the successful hunt spread quickly, and by the time they reached the village, a crowd had gathered to welcome them home. Children ran alongside the hunters, staring at the buck with wide eyes. Adults called out congratulations, their voices warm with approval.

Elara was waiting at the edge of the crowd, Ayla on her hip, Kael in a carrier on her back. Her eyes found Damon immediately, and her face broke into a smile that made his heart swell.

"We got one, Mama!" He ran to her, nearly tripping over his own feet, his words tumbling out in a rush. "I helped! I stayed quiet and I watched and I didn't move and Papa shot it and it fell and I touched it and I said the words—"

"Slow down, baby." She knelt, setting Ayla down, and pulled him into a hug. "I'm so proud of you."

"Oğlum artık bir savaşçı," she whispered into his hair, her voice thick with tears.

Damon pulled back, looking at her face. "Are you crying?"

"Maybe a little."

"Don't cry, Mama. I'm not gone. I'm right here."

She laughed, wiping her eyes. "I know, baby. I'm just happy."

Ayla tugged at Damon's sleeve. "Did you see the deer? Is it big? Can I touch it?"

Damon took his sister's hand and led her to where the hunters were preparing the buck for cleaning. "It's this big," he said, stretching his arms wide. "Maybe bigger."

Ayla's eyes widened. "Whoa."

Damon stood tall, his hand still in his sister's, his mother's tears still warm on his cheek. He was six years old. He was a hunter. He was part of something larger than himself.

And he could not wait for the next hunt.