“One shot,” he whispered, nocking the shadow arrow. The bow, a curved branch from the Tree of Unspoken Things, bent easily. Too easily. It always did when the target was vast.
He closed his eyes. The city screamed. A child’s cry cut through the din. arrow erome
His orders were clear: loose the arrow into the heart of the invaders’ siege engine, the great iron beetle vomiting fire onto the lower terraces. But as he drew, the arrow’s hunger spoke to him. Not the machine, it whispered in a voice like his own mother’s. The man commanding it. The warlord on the black horse. End him, and the rest scatter. “One shot,” he whispered, nocking the shadow arrow
He looked at the empty quiver at his hip. Seven arrows had been there at dawn. Now, only one remained. It always did when the target was vast
Erome’s fingers trembled. The arrow’s power was not in its flight, but in its choice . It would strike whatever he truly desired to destroy. If his heart wavered, if it held even a splinter of vengeance for his fallen family, the arrow would find the warlord. And the siege engine would incinerate the last library of silent prayers.