Darius clasped my arm. “If you’re destined for it, Grump, then take it.”
My fingers twitched. The bow had sung forme. It had chosenme. But I shoved the thought down. If it belonged to Grump, then it belonged to Grump.
Grump grabbed the bow with both hands. His arms strained. His jaw clenched. He managed to lift it an inch—maybe two—before it slammed back down.
He put his hands on his hips, breathing hard. “This is fucking impossible.”
This was ridiculous. I didn’t want to battle over a bow. I hadn’t asked for any of this.
As if it heard me, the bow sang.I’m hers.
My chest tightened. Even the weapon was fighting for me. Why? What did it see that everyone else had missed?
I looked over at Darius. "I can pick another weapon."
Nooo, the bow wailed, and I swore I felt it vibrating with distress.
Darius' lips twitched. "I don't think the bow agrees."
Neither did I. My grip tightened around it without thinking.
Grump’s head dropped. His shoulders sagged. For a long moment, he just stood there—defeated.
Then something shifted. He straightened. Rolled his shoulders back. When he turned around, his face was hard again.
“Let’s see if it really chose her.”
He strode toward a row of targets mounted on the far wall. Each one had a brunette woman’s face painted on it—cold eyes, cruel smile, a crown of thorns.
The queen. It had to be.
I glanced uneasily at Darius. “I’ve never shot an arrow before.”
My hands were trembling. Grump was watching me like a hawk waiting for a mouse to fail. One missed shot and he’d have all the proof he needed that I didn’t deserve this.
Darius stepped closer, his hand sliding down my arm until his fingers laced through mine. He pulled me close, his breath warm against my ear.
“Rumor has it that the bow is magical. All it needs is a bearer.” His silver eyes held mine. “You. The bow knows what to do. Trust it.”
Trust it. Easy for him to say. I was the one about to humiliate myself in front of a father who already hate me.
But the bow hummed softly against my palm. Warm. Waiting. Patient.
I won’t let you fall, it seemed to say.
Grump motioned with his hand. “Shoot, witch.”
From daughter to witch. I hardened myself, refusing to let him see how much that cut.
I took a slow breath and lifted the bow.
It settled into my palm like it had always belonged there. The gold was warm—not cold like metal should be—and it pulsed faintly beneath my fingers, like a heartbeat.
I reached back and pulled an arrow from the quiver. The shaft was smooth, perfectly balanced. My fingers found their position without thinking—one above, two below the nock—as if they’d done this a thousand times.
That’s it, the bow whispered.Just like that.
I raised the bow, drawing the string back toward my cheek. The golden thread hummed with tension, vibrating against my fingertips. My arms should have burned from the strain. They didn’t. The bow carried the weight for me.
