Excerpt from Phantoms Chapter XXII
*** Minor Spoilers ***

Arkas crouched low in the grass. He kept as low to the ground as he possibly could, just as his father had taught him. Though hunting in grasslands was different than hunting in the dunes and rocky crags of the Altimaran desert. That was why he was doing it.

Arkas relished the challenge of the grasslands as he had in the forests. It was a new territory and a new terrain. Grass and trees and bushes were easier to hide in, but the animals were far more sensitive to the slightest snap of a branch or even just the whiff of humans.

Whereas in Altimara, the animals were used to humans passing through to hunt, and it was easier to mask your sound on the sand—though there was a severe lack of hiding places, except behind the crests of dunes and in rocky caverns and crags in mesas.

The animals in Altimara were more dangerous, but in Estion they were meatier, but more skittish and prone to fleeing rather than fighting back.

Even the temperature made a difference. Arkas could spend far longer hunting in the woodlands or grasslands of Estion than in the deserts of Altimara. He consumed less water and wine, and fewer resources, and he wasn’t at risk of heatstroke or sunburn. He could hunt for hours or days on end if he wanted so long as he was properly stocked on supplies and found somewhere to shelter from the elements.

True to his father’s upbringing and livelihood, Arkas was a hunter at heart. The sport was thrilling to him. The tracking, the stalking, the kill. The feel of his heart in his throat as Arkas pulled back the bowstring. Putting the animal down quickly, humanely. It was still meant to be a respectful transaction. The animal was dying so another could live and eat. One life for another. Arkas always said a prayer after each kill and was sure to thank the animal.

Fyete was up above, hunting her own quarrel from the sky—but Arkas refused to use her eyes to assist in his hunt. It wasn’t fair to the animal, or sportsman-like of him. The animal didn’t have a second set of eyes in the sky, and neither would Arkas.

Today, Arkas’s quarrel was deer. A buck specifically. He had picked up on the creature’s trail early in the morning. Arkas had pursued the creature through most of the day, carefully stalking the deer as he meandered through the fields, eating grasses, chewing its cud, and drinking from springs.

Arkas had caught sight of the creature once, earlier during his hunt. The buck’s antlers showed its youth; no more than six points, but his body was lean and well-muscled. The buck had been eating well this year. He was alone; either he hadn’t formed a harem this breeding season, or he had lost to a bigger, stronger male.

Arkas had spent the better part of the day following the deer at a distance. He walked, slowly, carefully, following the tracks, watching the deer graze, or run through the woods, but now, the deer had stopped. It had been a good hour of waiting and watching. For the most part, the buck had spent that time resting and grazing some more. It didn’t look like it was going anywhere any time soon.

Now would be Arkas’s chance to strike.

He pulled his bow from his back, slowly, quietly, and nocked an arrow. Arkas sat crouching in the grass, holding his breath as he took aim. Right in the middle of the deer’s chest, where the heart was.

Arkas drew back the bowstring and felt a rush as the bow went taut against his fingers. His muscles in his arms and back flexed as he felt the weight of the draw.

Arkas held his breath, checked his aim, counted to three, and let the arrow go. The wooden shaft slid past his fingers, against the bow. He felt the fletching brush past him. He felt the bowstring twang, and he felt it reverberate through his hands and arms.

Time seemed to slow as the arrow slipped through the air. The deer didn’t even look up as the arrow pierced its side. It cried out, but it didn’t run. It fell on its side, kicking its front legs out slowly as the life left the creature’s body.

Arkas left his hiding place and walked over to the deer. It hadn’t been the cleanest shot. Arkas could tell before he had even reached the deer. He had pierced the creature through part of its spine. Arkas swore to himself; that he had been distracted when he made the shot. He could have done better. Now the creature was dying, but it wasn’t instantaneous as Arkas had hoped. The creature was struggling to depart this world. Without wasting a breath, Arkas drew his dagger, and cut into the creature’s neck. It stopped struggling within seconds.

That was not how Arkas wanted this to go, but life never went how you wanted it.

Arkas watched as the blood welled from the neck wound and pooled on the damp ground. It stained Arkas’s hands and fingers.

“I’m sorry I could not do better, but thank you for your sacrifice,” Arkas whispered to the departed deer.

There was an irony to hunting that Arkas had preferred to ignore…he felt far more sympathy for killing this creature and causing it to suffer than he had at Xiar. Xiar had inflicted wounds—both physical and mental—on all of Arkas’s friends, but it scarred Arkas differently. It had scarred him because it did not scar him.

Arkas could remember every kill. The boy not much older than him that had leapt over the wall like he was arriving at his wedding night, proud to be one of the first of his battalion over the wall, only to get an arrow to the eye and a second to his throat. He fell back, grabbing at his neck, screaming, gurgling, spitting up blood. He fell back and tumbled back down to the ground below. Arkas remembered the wet crunch his body made as it hit the dirt.

There was the old man who was trying to flee his duel with two Xiaran soldiers. He was wounded, limping like an old ram with a broken leg. He was scared, begging for mercy. Arkas put an arrow through the back of his skull—just like he would an old, wounded ram. It was the merciful thing to do.

A young Altimaran woman, who fought like a veteran and had the hardened, battle-scared face of one. Her attitude was that of someone who had seen many years of service. She climbed over the wall with a battle axe, and swung wide, carving deep swaths into the Xiaran defenders. Arkas put an arrow in her knee, but she refused to go down. Arkas engaged with his daggers and watched the woman’s life drain from her eyes as she gasped for breath. His dagger was buried to the hilt in her throat, and her blood was slick on his gloved hands.

Arkas had handled these kills as practically as he would hunting an animal. A life for a life. A simple transaction. It was his life, or the life of his friends or allies, for the life of an enemy. It was war; that was how war worked. The other side would not show him any quarter if the positions were reversed.

Yet, Arkas did not thank his human kills for giving their lives for him. He did not apologize to those whom he failed to kill on the first shot. He felt no compassion, no sadness, nothing at all. At times, he got lost in the heat of battle and almost relished in the feeling of his knives cutting through flesh and bone. Severing arteries and veins; feeling the warm blood run over his fingers.

This scared him the most. He was a hero of Enayra, a Khaleeshir. He was meant to be a beacon of hope and inspiration. Magnanimous and kind to all—even the Altimarans he fought would be amongst the people he would have to look after and watch over after the war was over and Tenebrae was defeated.

No. Arkas was wasting time. There was no point puzzling this over. What he had done he had done because that was war. The soldiers got their quick death—or as quickly as Arkas could manage. They would have done the same to him, though they might not have shown him the same courtesy. There was no point pondering over the morality of it all. It was a moot point.

Arkas sighed and wasted not another minute. He began to field dress the dear while he waited for Fyete to return.

Fyete touched down a few minutes later, with a wild boar in her maw. “You called?”

Arkas didn’t look up from his work as he skinned and quartered the deer. “Are you okay if I put these in the saddle bags?”

“Do I ever complain?”

Arkas smiled. “No, I suppose you don’t.”

Fyete put down the boar. “You’re dwelling again.”

“I am not.”

“You were though. I can feel it. I am literally connected to your mind at every waking moment. You can’t lie to me.”

Arkas did not stop with the deer, but he didn’t respond either.

“Arkas.”

“It’s not normal for humans to feel that way, is it? All my friends understand the practicality of the kill. But all the death around us, both on our side and on the enemy’s side…even the civilians…it affects them but to me? All that death—I don’t feel anything. I feel bad for the civilians, but I can’t do anything but kill more enemies. And I am sorry to see my allies fall…but I can’t do anything except defend them by killing more enemies. As for our enemies, it’s hard to feel sorry for someone who is trying to kill me. I kill them because it’s me or them.”

“I see nothing wrong with what you’ve done, or how you feel. It is perfectly normal for dragons.”

“I’m not a dragon.”

“You’re part dragon now, thanks to the ritual.”

“I’ve always been like this. When we killed Jerrin and those Town Watch members last year, I had the same feelings. Dare I say I even enjoyed getting revenge on them? I remember sticking a knife into the skull of one of Jerrin’s underlings and I…enjoyed it. It felt like retribution for everything they did. I felt better.”

Fyete took a small nibble out of the boar’s haunch. “You should. The Town Watch were terrible people, they did terrible things. They almost hurt Arial. You did the right thing by killing them, and you made Kula a better place.”

Arkas sighed and ran his forearm across his sweating forehead. A dribble of blood smeared across his temple. “You are the worst impulse control.”

“I only speak fact.” Fyete had gone from nibbling on the haunch of the boar to ripping deeper into the flesh. Blood stained her muzzle. “You are not broken, Arkas. There is nothing wrong with you. You care deeply for me and your friends. You are not some unfeeling, heartless monster, but you will do what you must to protect us. You do not freeze when you must act. That is the sign of a true hunter—a true hero. It’s practical, and I admire it.”

Arkas smiled. He quickly finished quartering the deer and began loading it into the saddle bags. “Let’s get going.”

Fyete frowned. “I was just digging in.”

“Bring it with you. You knew I wasn’t going to be long.”

Fyete picked the boar up in her fangs again. “But I was hungry.”

Arkas shook his head. “I repeat, you are the worst impulse control.”