"The pain is a liar, Kaelen," she whispered, her voice a grounding anchor. "The arrowhurt wants you to think the wound is your whole world. Look at me. Breathe the moss and the rain, not the sting."
Kaelen tried to focus. The forest around them felt like it was retreating into a gray haze. Every beat of his heart sent a fresh wave of cold fire through his veins. He could see the black veins of the enchantment creeping away from the wound, a dark web against his pale skin. "It’s... it's heavy," Kaelen managed to gasp. arrowhurt
It was Elara, the troop’s veteran archer. She was already at his side, her hands glowing with a faint, steady light. She didn't reach for the arrow first; she reached for his mind. "The pain is a liar, Kaelen," she whispered,
Then he remembered the sun on the high ridges and the smell of roasting bread in his village. He pushed back. He didn't use a sword or a spell; he used the simple, stubborn memory of warmth. The black veins receded. The gray haze cleared. Breathe the moss and the rain, not the sting
The sky over the Great Forest was the color of a bruised plum when the final volley of arrows fell. Kaelen, a young scout whose only real talent was running fast and staying quiet, felt the sharp, hot sting in his shoulder before he heard the thwack of the shaft finding its mark.
"I know. The shadows are heavy," Elara agreed, her fingers finally brushing the feathered fletching. "But you are lighter than the dark. On three, I’m going to pull the physical steel. The spiritual hurt... that’s yours to push out."
He tumbled into the damp ferns, the world spinning. The "arrowhurt"—a term the healers used for the lingering, soul-deep ache of an enchanted projectile—blossomed through his chest. These weren't ordinary arrows; the Shadow-cloaks tipped them with essence-draining glass that ate at the spirit as much as the flesh. "Stay down," a voice hissed.