The forest was quiet - but not peaceful. It was the kind of silence that coils in the lungs before a scream, the hush that precedes a storm’s first shattering blow. Frost-laced pines loomed like ancient sentinels, their branches heavy with ice, dripping in slow, deliberate ticks that sounded like a countdown to something inevitable.
Elgaraen crouched beneath one, her fingers locked around the grip of her old bow. The leather was cracked, worn smooth by years of use—but tonight, it felt foreign. Her grip was wrong. Too tight. Too cold. Her breath came in shallow bursts, each one a trembling ghost in the frozen air. Ahead, the Orc sentry paced near the ruined archway of Amon Môth, his armor whispering with each step—soft, metallic, and far too loud in the hush.
Her heart thundered against her ribs like a war drum, erratic and insistent.
Argadane knelt beside her, calm as carved stone. Her father. His presence was a fortress, his voice low and steady, but edged with the weight of memory. “You only get one shot before they know you’re here,” he said. “Aim for the throat. Don’t hesitate.”
She nodded, but her hands betrayed her—trembling, uncertain. She had trained for this. She had hunted deer, loosed arrows at straw dummies, sparred with blunted blades. But this was different. This was real. The sentry wasn’t a target. He was alive. Breathing. And soon, if she did what she must, he wouldn’t be.
“I don’t know if I can,” she whispered, the words brittle as ice. They felt like betrayal.
Argadane turned to her, and for a moment, the mask of the warrior cracked. His eyes—shadowed not just by memory, but by the ghosts of choices made—met hers. “I remember my first,” he said. “I was younger than you. I missed. He screamed. I still hear it, even now. But I learned. Not just how to kill—but why we must.”
She swallowed hard. The weight of her bloodline pressed against her—the legacy of the Dúnedain, the burden of protecting a world that was slipping into shadow. Her fingers brushed the bodkin’s shaft—rough, familiar, suddenly alien. She nocked it with care, each movement deliberate, as if time itself had paused to watch.
The sentry turned.
She raised her bow. Her breath caught. A single snowflake landed on her knuckle and melted.
Argadane’s hand brushed her shoulder—silent, grounding.
She loosed.
And the world held its breath.
