“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.
The shadow vanished. No whistle. No streak. Just a sudden, profound absence of sound where the siege engine’s fiery belch had been. The iron beetle shuddered, its furnace heart going dark. The hollow men paused, confused, their commands dying in their throats.
He stood on the chalk-white cliff overlooking the Cinder Sea. Below, the city of Veridias burned for the third time this decade. The invaders—hollow men with furnace hearts—did not want land or gold. They wanted the silence Erome protected. They wanted the echo of the world’s final scream. arrow erome
He thought not of the warlord’s face. He thought of the child’s silence—the quiet of a full belly, of a mother’s lullaby, of a morning without smoke. He poured that wish into the arrow.
He closed his eyes. The city screamed. A child’s cry cut through the din. “One shot,” he whispered, nocking the shadow arrow
He released.
He would have to choose more carefully next time. But for now, in the blessed, ringing silence, Erome allowed himself a single, broken whisper of a smile. It always did when the target was vast
He looked at the empty quiver at his hip. Seven arrows had been there at dawn. Now, only one remained.