The bowstring snapped forward. The arrow hissed through the air, deadly and straight.
It struck the tree trunk—just beside Alistair's head.
Wood splintered. Hair sliced. Pale golden strands drifted down like fallen sunlight, scattering at Alistair's boots.
The clearing went still.
Nobles froze, mouths open, laughter dying sharp in their throats. Guards stiffened, hands leaping instinctively to their weapons before hesitating, caught in the stranglehold of disbelief.
Alistair's grin shattered. His eyes widened, his hand flying up to touch his hair. Fingers brushed uneven strands where the arrow had cut clean through, leaving his head intact but his vanity wounded. He stared at the strands clinging to his glove as though they were blood.
A beat of silence stretched taut, trembling on the edge of chaos.
