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.
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 looked at the empty quiver at his hip. Seven arrows had been there at dawn. Now, only one remained. arrow erome
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.
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. Erome’s fingers trembled
“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.
Erome slumped to his knees, the bow clattering beside him. The arrow was gone, spent. But Veridias was not saved. Only granted a breath. If his heart wavered, if it held even
He released.