The arrow was not made of wood or steel, but of solidified shadow. Erome, the last Keeper of the Silent Quiver, felt its weight less in his hand and more in his chest. It hummed with a frequency that ached behind his teeth.
He looked at the empty quiver at his hip. Seven arrows had been there at dawn. Now, only one remained. arrow erome
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 arrow was not made of wood or
“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 looked at the empty quiver at his hip
He released.