He hadn't expected the voice, but doesn't flinch. His gaze flicks briefly in her direction and the back to the arrow that flew wide, a faint arch to his brow as he sets another to the bowstring.

"I did," he concedes, his low voice and gruff tone conveying a kind of irritation that is rarely as strongly meant as it sounds. "But if one never misses, one never learns."

The next arrow strikes on the bullseye, and he lowers the bow to give the child a larger amount of his attention. They looked young to be out so late, but hadn't he been much the same? It wasn't his place to scold, either way.

"Thinking you've perfected an art only means that you've fallen into habits."