Vengeance

The forest stretched out before her, endless and heavy with shadows. She stood at the edge, her feet planted firm against the cold earth, eyes fixed on the distant target. Her breath came in quiet bursts, almost blending with the night’s breeze. Her fingers wrapped around the bow, a cold and familiar companion, while her other hand adjusted the arrow at her side.

Her gloves were red. The dark crimson of the leather matched the sheen of her lips. She had never thought much of the color before, but now, standing in the solitude of the woods, it felt like a warning—a reminder of what she was capable of, what she had always been capable of.

Her arrows, too, were tipped in red, gleaming under the pale moonlight. Each one was a promise of pain, a tool designed to wound. Yet, it wasn’t the arrow that threatened to hurt—no, it was the intention behind it. The choice to release it, to send it hurtling into the unknown, without a care for what it might strike.

Her lips trembled as she adjusted the bowstring. There was a tremor in her chest, a voice telling her to stop. But the silence of the forest, the stillness in the air, urged her forward.

She released the string.

The arrow flew, cutting through the night like a whisper, a flash of red that was gone before it could even be noticed. Her gaze followed the trajectory, her heart pounding as it hit the target with a soft thud. She didn’t flinch. Not yet. Not until she saw where it landed.

It was too easy.

The moment she’d been waiting for—the thrill of impact, the satisfaction of precision—felt hollow. The arrow had struck true, but it felt as though it had hit nothing at all.

She stepped forward, crossing the distance between herself and the target. As she pulled the arrow free, the sharp metal tip glinted in the moonlight. She stared at it, as though she could see herself reflected in it.

What was she chasing?

Her hands shook, the red gloves suddenly too tight.

There was no one else out here. Just her, the bow, and the darkness. But even in the quiet of the woods, there was a voice echoing in her mind—quiet, insistent, like a whisper beneath her breath. It told her she wasn’t enough. It told her she had to aim higher, harder, sharper. It told her she wasn’t allowed to miss.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the taste of bitterness lingering. Her lips were still red, a reminder of the way words could cut—just as the arrows could.

The forest stretched out again, endless and waiting. She took a step back, re-nocking the arrow. Her fingers itched, desperate to send it soaring once more. But for the first time, she hesitated. She could feel the weight of her gloves, the sharp point of the arrow, and something heavier in her chest.

Had she hurt anyone yet? Was that the reason she kept aiming, kept pulling the string, kept releasing the arrows into the void?

The silence answered her in a way she had never expected. It told her that maybe, just maybe, the hurt wasn’t in the arrows. It was in the choice to keep shooting them, again and again, into the dark.

Her gloves, her lips, and her arrows—red, like the things that could wound—were only as dangerous as her need to prove she could never miss.

For a long moment, the bow remained still in her hands. The next shot might bring another wound. But the choice, the red in her hands, it was hers to make.