long had passed between that bite and when
she again moved. It could have been a second,
it could have been a minute.
But then she was drawing an arrow from
her nearly depleted quiver. The wind
threatened to rip it from her fingers, but she
nocked it to her bow, the world spinning-
spinning-spinning, the wind roaring, and
aimed.
Iskra’s bull bucked as her arrow landed—
just a hairsbreadth from his eye.
But he did not let go.
He didn’t have the deep grip to rip out
Abraxos’s throat, but if he crunched down
long enough, if he cut off her mount’s air
supply—
Manon unleashed another arrow. The wind
shifted it enough that she struck the beast’s
jaw, barely embedding in the thick hide.
Iskra was laughing. Laughing as Abraxos
lily
(lily)
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