The bow appears in Mira's hand, and the arrow is already nocked when Rhayne lifts her eyes.
The distance is too short for comfort and too long for mercy. Forty feet, maybe a little more after the back handspring. The bow isn't large like the ones used in open war, but the wood is thick, the fit firm, the string heavy. A hundred and twenty pounds of draw, maybe a hundred and thirty.
The arrow would cross that distance in less than a fifth of a second. Too much time to die in, too little to fix a bad decision. With the cut leg, the open shoulder, and the Amazon Hunting Ground still lying inside Mira's radius, Rhayne has no clean dodge.
She doesn't need to dodge. There's no time for that.
She needs to choose where to be hit.
Mira holds the bow ready, the arrowhead aligned with the center of Rhayne's chest. My mouth opens to call stop, but before the command can become sound, the string sings.
Rhayne doesn't blink. Blinking would cost more time than the arrow needs to arrive.
