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My father had always wanted a son. Instead, he got me.

My mother died giving birth to me. My father, well, he must have loved her very much. He never remarried, nor had any other children. To this day, I think he must have been conflicted. On the one hand, I was the only reminder, the last remnant of his wife. On the other, I was the one who killed her.

I never comprehended how much it must have torn him apart until after he died.

As I said, I always felt he would have preferred a son. Still, I did my best to fulfill his expectations. At the age of six, I learned to draw a bow. At ten, I could put an arrow through the heart of a hare at ten paces. By twelve, I had graduated to a full-size recurve bow. My aim surpassed that of most of the men in our village.

My father had always included me on his hunting trips. From them, I learned to travel quietly at all times, and silently when it was required. I learned all I needed to set up ambushes for unwary deer. My tracking skill was unmatched.

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