The Arrow’s Edge
The campfire crackled like a caged beast.
Wolfthora sat with one leg outstretched and the other pulled up to her chest, sharpening the edge of her scimitar with short, rhythmic strokes. Sparks leapt from the blade like little dancers, catching the orange glow of the firelight in her wild hair.
Nyssarra sat opposite her, fingers resting on a moss-covered stone, the wind catching strands of her pale blue hair and brushing them against her cheek. Her eyes, luminous and still, studied the flickering flames—not avoiding Wolfthora, but not directly looking at her either.
They had fought side by side that day—against bandits in the foothills near Taverley, blades and arrows and fire flashing in a brutal blur. Victory had not come easy, but it had come.
Now came the quiet. The part neither of them liked to name.
“You’re brooding,” Wolfthora said suddenly, not looking up from her blade.
Nyssarra raised an eyebrow. “I’m resting. You might try it sometime.”
Wolfthora snorted. “Resting looks a lot like being lost in thought.”
“Thought is not a battlefield, Wolfthora.”
The Zamorakian warrior looked up, grinning with just enough feral charm to be dangerous. “That’s where you’re wrong. Most vicious fight you’ll ever have is between your ears.”
Nyssarra allowed a small smile to ghost across her lips, though she quickly turned it toward the fire. The silence that followed was not tense—but it crackled, not unlike the flame between them.
After a moment, Wolfthora leaned over to her satchel. “Got something,” she muttered.
Nyssarra glanced at her, curious. “What is it?”
Wolfthora pulled out a bundle wrapped in thick, dark leather, bound with a red thread. She hesitated. Just for a breath. Then she tossed it across the fire with a casual flick of her wrist.
“Here. Caught my eye.”
Nyssarra caught the bundle deftly. Her fingers ran over the leather, sensing the weight and balance. She undid the thread, and as the wrap fell away, her breath caught slightly.
Arrows.
A full dozen. Each shaft made from darkened yew, straight and finely balanced, fletched with black and crimson feathers. But it was the arrowheads that made her pause.
Runic steel, etched with delicate inscriptions—subtle but precise. Magic hummed from them in quiet pulses, not loud or showy, but deep. Trustworthy.
She looked up slowly. “These are… exquisite.”
Wolfthora shrugged. “Found a blacksmith who owed me a favor.”
Nyssarra narrowed her eyes, smile threatening to break through again. “These weren’t forged. They were fletched. By hand. These are yours.”
Wolfthora scoffed. “Yeah, well. Got bored. Had a few broken spears lying around. Figured you’d make better use of ‘em than dust and rats.”
“You fletched these yourself.” It wasn’t a question anymore.
“Don’t make it weird,” Wolfthora muttered, running her fingers through her hair.
But Nyssarra’s gaze had gone soft—quiet, but piercing. She looked down at the arrows again, turning one gently in her hand.
“Rune steel,” she murmured. “These enchantments—they’re elemental. Adaptive. They’ll strike true even in wind or rain. You studied for this.”
Wolfthora groaned. “You’re unbearable.”
“I mean it,” Nyssarra said, lifting her head again. “You didn’t just make me weapons. You thought about how I fight.”
The warrior’s grin faded. For once, she wasn’t posturing.
“I watch you,” she said, voice lower now. “When we’re in the thick of it. You move like... like water and glass. Clean. Sharp. You don’t need another blade. You need arrows that won’t shatter when they hit a bone plate or lose balance in a gust.”
Nyssarra blinked, surprised by the clarity in those words.
Wolfthora looked away, suddenly very interested in her sword again. “I don’t say things right. You know that.”
“You say them like thunder,” Nyssarra replied. “And sometimes that’s exactly what’s needed.”
She stood and walked around the fire, kneeling beside Wolfthora. The rune-tipped arrow was still in her hand.
“I will carry them,” she said softly. “Not because I need better weapons. But because they are from you.”
Wolfthora glanced at her. Their eyes locked.
“And I’ll use them when it matters most.”
The flame cracked again. Their shadows stretched together across the moss and earth, indistinct but joined.
There was no kiss. No confession. Just the wind through the trees, and the smallest nod from Wolfthora—an unspoken agreement.
“I figured,” Wolfthora said at last. “If you’re gonna walk into danger for everyone else, you might as well do it with something that reminds you you’re not doing it alone.”
Nyssarra let the words settle. Then she placed a hand lightly on Wolfthora’s shoulder. The contact was brief. Grounded. Real.
They sat together a while longer, not needing to speak.
And when the moon rose above the treetops, its light caught on the fletching of twelve perfect arrows resting beside the ranger—steel and runes forged by flame and offered in silence.