Erome: Arrow

He closed his eyes. The city screamed. A child’s cry cut through the din.

He looked at the empty quiver at his hip. Seven arrows had been there at dawn. Now, only one remained. arrow erome

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. He closed his eyes

“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