Arrowhurt «FRESH»

It was Elara, the troop’s veteran archer. She was already at his side, her hands glowing with a faint, steady light. She didn't reach for the arrow first; she reached for his mind.

"Not today," he breathed, sitting up as Elara bandaged the wound. The ache was still there, a dull reminder of how close he’d come, but the arrowhurt was broken. arrowhurt

Then he remembered the sun on the high ridges and the smell of roasting bread in his village. He pushed back. He didn't use a sword or a spell; he used the simple, stubborn memory of warmth. The black veins receded. The gray haze cleared. It was Elara, the troop’s veteran archer

One. The forest held its breath.Two. Kaelen gripped a handful of dirt, feeling the grit and life of the earth.Three. "Not today," he breathed, sitting up as Elara

He tumbled into the damp ferns, the world spinning. The "arrowhurt"—a term the healers used for the lingering, soul-deep ache of an enchanted projectile—blossomed through his chest. These weren't ordinary arrows; the Shadow-cloaks tipped them with essence-draining glass that ate at the spirit as much as the flesh. "Stay down," a voice hissed.