He looked at the empty quiver at his hip. Seven arrows had been there at dawn. Now, only one remained.
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. arrow erome
Erome slumped to his knees, the bow clattering beside him. The arrow was gone, spent. But Veridias was not saved. Only granted a breath. He looked at the empty quiver at his hip
He released.
Back to top