The standing stones rose from the forest floor like the broken teeth of a primordial giant, silvered by the pale light of the half-moon. The air in the clearing was still and cold, carrying the damp scent of moss and ancient stone. Arrion had come early, not to hide, but to claim the terrain. He positioned himself on a low, lichen-crusted rise at the edge of the ring, the highest point, giving him a commanding view of the approach.
He knelt, one massive knee in the loam, and placed a hand on the cold earth. He closed his eyes, not in fear, but in focus. His voice was a low, steady murmur, barely disturbing the silence.
"Verdant King, guardian of the deep green heart, see your petitioner. Lend your wrath to the roots that trip my foes, your silence to my steps."
He shifted his grip, his fingers curling into the soil.
"Silent Saint, who hears the unspoken plea, grant me clarity. Let me see the path through the coming storm."
He took a slow breath, the cold air sharp in his lungs.
"Eye of Light, judge of dawn and dusk, guide my hand. Let justice, not vengeance, be the edge I wield."
He opened his eyes, staring up at the sliver of moon between the monoliths. "All gods of hearth and hunt, of stone and stream, of forgotten tales and whispered truths… I am but one man standing at a crossroads of shadows. Grant me the strength of my father's arm, the wisdom of my mother's heart. Let me be…"
The prayer was shattered not by a voice, but by a sound he knew intimately: the *thwip-twang* of a powerful war bow releasing, followed instantly by the wicked hiss of an arrow in flight.
Arrion didn't think; he moved. He threw himself sideways in a roll that was startlingly fast for a man of his size, the black iron plates on his armor clinking softly. The arrow slammed into the earth where his heart had been a heartbeat before, burying itself to the fletching in the soft ground with a vicious *thud*.
He came up in a crouch behind the bulk of the nearest standing stone, his own purple-wood bow already in his hand, an oak-and-iron arrow nocked in one fluid motion. His storm-grey eyes scanned the opposing treeline.
They emerged from the shadows not as two, but as a small, deadly company. The two from the tavern—the scarred older man with the greatsword now bare and resting on his shoulder, and the younger one with the serpent ring—stood at the forefront. But arrayed behind them in a loose semicircle were ten more men, all clad in the same functional black, armed with a mix of swords, axes, and bows. They were disciplined, silent, their formation speaking of professional soldiers, not bandits.
The one who had shot was separate, standing slightly apart on a small hummock. He was tall and unnaturally slender, with long, pale hair tied back. He lowered a sleek, dark-wood war bow, a mocking smirk on his narrow face. "A prayer won't save you, giant," he called, his voice reedy. "Only a quick death. And you're too slow to beg for that."
Arrion didn't rise from behind the stone. He simply tilted his bow, judged the distance, the breeze, the arrogant angle of the slender man's body. He drew, the purple wood groaning its deep-throated song, and released.
The arrow was not a shadow. It was a statement. It crossed the glade in a flat, terrifying line, faster than seemed possible. It did not aim for center mass. It was a hunter's shot, a brutal correction.
THWACK.
The arrow slammed into the slender man's war bow, just above the grip. The impact was savage, splintering the elegant dark wood, tearing the weapon from his grasp and sending it spinning into the darkness. The force knocked the man back a step, his smirk vaporized into a mask of shock and pain as the vibration numbed his entire arm.
From behind his stone, Arrion's voice rang out, clear, cold, and laden with contempt. "A poor shot. You reveal yourself from the treeline, give away your position with a missed kill, and still think you hold the advantage. The Marquis's coin buys poorer quality these days." He paused, letting the truth of his own, far-superior archery sink into the frozen silence. "If that was your best, this will be a short night. And a final one."
The older man with the greatsword didn't react to his archer's humiliation. His scarred face remained impassive, but his eyes, fixed on the standing stone behind which Arrion hid, held a new, grim respect. The trap was sprung, but the prey had fangs longer and sharper than they'd anticipated. The game had changed with a single, shattering shot.
The younger one, the serpent-ringed kestrel, smiled his thin smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "A moving target is harder to hit," he called back, his voice slick. "But we have more arrows. And you are only one."
Arrion rose to his full, armored height on the outcrop, Nightshade a stark line at his side. He was no longer a petitioner, but a power.
"Indeed I am one," Arrion agreed, his grey eyes scanning the twelve below. " But you walked into my domain, the Verdant One's domain and you did not do so with respect. That makes you the outnumbered ones"