“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.
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 released.
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.