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 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. 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. The arrow was not made of wood or
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 thought not of the warlord’s face
He released.
He looked at the empty quiver at his hip. Seven arrows had been there at dawn. Now, only one remained.
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.
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