Chapter Ten: Target Practice

The morning air was crisp—if you could call anything in this cursed realm "morning." There was no sun, only a pale silver light that filtered through the clouds like the memory of day.

Lena stepped outside in tight black pants, a sleeveless tunic, and her hair loosely tied back. She carried a bow over her shoulder like she'd been born with it.

Because she *kind of had*.

She didn't know where the urge came from—maybe from waking up with heat still crawling across her skin after that encounter last night. Maybe from the restless energy she couldn't shake. Or maybe... she just needed to prove to herself that she wasn't just *some girl in white tempting kings and curses.*

She was Lena.

And she could shoot.

The training yard was deserted. Of course it was. Who dared step out early when the castle itself breathed magic and shadows? She liked it this way—quiet, open, with targets lined neatly across the field.

She strung the bow, took a deep breath, and let her fingers find their place.

*Thwip.*

First arrow: bullseye

"Still got it," she muttered, nocking another. "Guess all those summer camps in the human realm weren't a total waste."

*Thwip.* Second arrow: dead center.

"Eat your heart out, Legolas."

She smirked and spun dramatically, letting the next arrow loose without even fully facing the target.

Bullseye again.

"Ohhh, look at that," she laughed to herself, pacing. "Princess with attitude *and* aim. Maybe I'll shoot the Night King next time he gets too close. Right in that smug, too-handsome-for-his-own-good face."

From the shadows above, unseen—he watched.

The Night King stood on a balcony half-draped in ivy, arms crossed, eyes following her every movement. His expression unreadable, but his gaze? Sharp. Focused.

He watched how her body moved. The grace. The precision. The confidence. This wasn't some helpless mortal girl.

She was a flame.

And flames burned.

Down in the yard, Lena spun and shot again, whispering, "Who even drinks blood straight from a wine glass in a towel like that? Show-off. Probably thinks I'm obsessed now."

*Thwip.*

Perfect shot.

"I'm not."

She paused. Lowered the bow. Exhaled.

"I mean, maybe just a little. But it's mostly anger. Okay—fifty percent anger, fifty percent... *whatever this thing is.*"

Behind her, a breeze stirred.

She froze.

"You talk to yourself more than you talk to me," said that smooth, icy voice.

Lena whirled around, startled. The Night King stood a few feet away, dressed in black from throat to boot, a long cloak sweeping behind him like smoke.

She cleared her throat, bow still in hand. "Do you *ever* announce your arrival like a normal person?"

He took a slow step toward her, eyes gleaming. "You weren't exactly hard to find. I heard the sarcasm from three towers away."

She shrugged. "Maybe I should start charging for performances."

"I'd pay," he murmured, and the way he said it—dark, amused, hungry—sent heat right to her stomach.

She narrowed her eyes. "Why are you here?"

"I like watching dangerous things."

Lena stepped closer, holding the bow loosely at her side. "And I like proving I'm not just something to be watched."

"You're not." His voice dropped. "You're something to be *reckoned with.*"

Silence stretched between them. Thick. Charged.

Then, she raised the bow, pointed it at his chest.

"Move," she said.

He didn't.

"Seriously. I don't miss."

"Then shoot," he challenged.

She stared him down, fingers tightening. Her heart thudded.

Then—

She slowly lowered the bow. "Not today."

He smiled—small, wicked. "You'll have to try harder than arrows to hurt me."

She walked past him, her voice light but sharp. "Oh, don't worry, Your Darkness. I'm aiming for your pride."

And as she walked off, hips swaying, bow slung over her shoulder, he watched her again.

This girl. This storm.

She wasn't just waking up to his world.

She was *shaping it.