The Seven Worlds

Determined yet alert to every sound, I crept through the damp forest. Moist earth muffled my steps. Recent rain draped nature in a misty veil, with droplets adorning branches like jewels. The smell of damp soil mixed with subtle scents of moss and foliage. Sunbeams danced on wet leaves among thick trees, making them gleam like gems. A soft breeze whispered against my skin, comforting me. I wore gear designed for hunting, fitting like a second skin. My outfit had plenty of pockets, and a belt adorned with various knives hung around my waist. A relaxed bow with an arrow already nocked rested in my hands. A soft, melodic whistle caught my attention, pulling me toward the east. I answered the unique call with a whistle of my own, mimicking the song of an Azuretail—a bird of stunning violet hues, native to this forest where I'd spent my whole life hunting with my friends. Choosing the Azuretail as my signature bird call had been an easy decision, and I'd soon mastered its song, refusing to imitate any other bird since. A quivering, high-pitched call of a Lightcrest echoed back, close by. A smirk crept across my lips as I recognized Leora's response. Our prey was near. Cautiously, I took a step toward the Lightcrest's call. The wet ground squelched under my boot. Cursing under my breath, I pressed on, keeping my breathing steady. Nearby, I heard rustling through the green leaves. I nocked my bow, lifting it and aiming. I looked down the arrow's shaft, locking eyes with a doe. She saw me but didn't move, frozen with her mouth full of the damp foliage she’d been grazing on. With a sigh, I released the arrow. It sliced through the air, its tension whispering through the forest still damp from a recent downpour that had soaked my friends and me. I swiftly moved to my fallen prey, whose knees buckled as she let out a horrifying roar. The sound was deafening; her terror sent a shiver down my spine. I quickly laid my bow aside, drew a knife from my belt, and slit her throat in one clean motion. Within moments, the forest returned to its serene calm, disrupted only by the iron scent of fresh blood covering my fingers and the forest floor. Breaking twigs signaled an approach. Fiona was striding toward me, and she wasn’t alone. The silence had broken; everyone emerged from hiding. From a nearby oak, a shadow moved. Landing softly on her feet, Maria stuck her hands in her pockets and shook her head, her wet, dark-brown braid sliding over her shoulder. Drops still dripped from its tip. "That was not a good kill, Ari," she chided, and rightly so. I held back a wince. She was right, and quite diplomatic about it. One should only need a single act to take a life. One arrow should suffice. The animal gave its life; it shouldn't suffer just because we need meat and fur. "I know," I hissed, wiping my bloodied knife on the damp ground. "Ariana," called out Leora, who had just been mimicking a Lightcrest bird. She rushed toward us, two large birds slung over her shoulder, hooked to a line. I suppressed a grin. "Lightcrests, huh?" I said, noting her always-morbid choice of calls. "Had you made a clean shot, Ariana," she snapped, "I would've had more than just Lightcrests. I was this close to bagging my own deer, Ari. This close." She held her thumb and forefinger barely an inch apart. "Your prey's death throes scared mine away." A fourth voice joined in. "We've had a good week, Leora. One off-mark shot doesn't change that Ariana is still our best archer." "That's not the point," Leora groaned, turning to Wilma, who was approaching with arms crossed. Her short, blond hair framed her face wildly, her eyes proud. "It is," countered Wilma, the eldest among us at thirty-five. She excelled in knife-throwing but had slightly poorer eyesight, rarely using a bow. "We've got three deer, eight Lightcrests, four Mosspelts, and six Forestwhisperers. We can return to Brookdale with our heads held high." "Don't forget the Shadow Fox," Fiona chimed in. I sheathed my knife, suppressing a cough. The Shadow Fox was my catch from yesterday—a rare breed whose fur fetched a good price. The foxes were small and swift, difficult to catch. And you had to catch them before killing, to preserve the pelt because they were often used in cradles or inside cloaks. A single arrow ruins it before you can even skin it. "Exactly," Wilma agreed, fidgeting with a knife that spun around her finger like a windmill's blade, creating a whizzing sound in the forest. "I wonder which team will win," Maria mused, adjusting her long braid. "Come, help me with this deer," Wilma directed. They knelt beside the animal, tying its legs together before dragging it back to our camp, where Stasia waited beside our loot and tents, a fire crackling. In our village, Brookdale, there were various hunting teams, each comprised of five girls. In Avelora, it's women who hunt, while men tend to the fields. Each season, we, the Shadowhunters, compete with the Windbirds—another all-girls team. The winning team earns gifts collected by the village, sometimes pickled vegetables or even trinkets from traders. Spring had just arrived, and our hunt would fill many bellies. Everyone awaited our return as they would soon be preserving the meat for less fortunate days. Not that we were concerned. We were known as the most skilled huntresses in the region, ensuring our village never knew hunger. But in Avelora, kindness, sharing prosperity, and caring for the vulnerable were considered the norm. As the smallest of the seven realms, we knew no magic unlike the other six. We relied on physical strength, wit, and adaptability. I'd never met anyone from the other six realms, but tales of their wizards were daily campfire fodder. Stories of shapeshifters or frozen tundras kept young imaginations alive. No one I knew, knew if the other six realms really existed. Still, we kept referring to ourselves as the First Realm. That´s the way it´s always been. "I think we stand a good chance of winning," Stasia muttered, her eyes sparkling at our gathered loot. Our hunt had lasted only four days, but we'd amassed quite a collection. "The Shadow Fox is mine," I declared, ensuring everyone heard me. "We're not giving it to Elerea." "You've only said that three times," Leora grumbled. "If we lose because of you, Ariana, I'll break your bow," Maria threatened, her tone sharp but eyes twinkling in jest. "As if you could get near my bow," I retorted. I approached a makeshift clothesline where I'd hung the Shadow Fox's pelt. It shimmered in the late afternoon sun. Almost dry, soon ready to take home. "What do you need the pelt for? Planning to tell us you're pregnant?" Leora teased. "We'll be down one archer next hunting season if so." "Come on, Leora," Wilma jumped in, her stern face melting into a smile. "As if Ariana is getting any." They all laughed while I gestured rudely with my hand. "Thanks a lot," I hissed, trying not to smile. In our village, Brookdale, Nature Festivals happened at the end of every season. Open to all above a certain age, these festivals often celebrated successful harvests or hunts. They featured potent herbal liquors, leading men and women to share spirited nights in tents or homes. Married or not. Young or old. Anything went, as long as it was consensual. But me? I abstained. At nineteen, I joined the revelry once but quickly backed out. It wasn't my scene. There wasn't a man in the village I'd want to share a bed with. Except Isaac. No liquor needed there. He was my secret; I was his. Isaac was a merchant from Silverbrook, two days away. He'd been coming to Brookdale for years for various reasons—buying our pelts, visiting his mother who lived nearby. Elerea, his mother, was once our village's top huntress. Now, her gray hair and aching knuckles had caught up with her. She also recorded our game hauls, declaring the winning team at tonight's hunting feast. Isaac was a bit older, around thirty to my twenty-three. Handsome, yes, but I avoided seeing him too often. He wanted more—a life together in Silverbrook, a marriage. But I wasn't ready for wifely duties. I cherished my freedom, going where I pleased. My only responsibility was my younger sister, Elena. Only a year apart, but polar opposites. I was tough and loved nature; she was artistic and softer, the darling star and often main attraction of the seasonal Festivals. While I had a sternness, hardened by the lives I'd taken in hunts, she emanated a naïve warmth. Endearing. I loved her dearly, but she could drive me mad. We'd been clashing, and communication was scarce lately. Not my fault, I was sure. Petting the soft pelt, I hoped it would soften her heart. Maybe she'd talk to me. Or at least tell me who the father was.