His gloved fingers drew the arrow onto the bowstring. A small breath in and a deep breath out, his eyes as cold as the winter breeze, locked onto the target. He released the arrow, its smooth, heavy piercing sound cutting through the biting wind, hitting with the precision of a hawk striking its prey.

For him, it felt more like practice than an actual hunt. He pulled another arrow from his quiver, the soft rustling of snow underfoot and the distant creaking of ice-laden branches punctuating the silence. He held his breath again, feeling the sharp chill of the morning air and hearing the crunching steps under the snow of the last coven member running away from him. He watched them glance back, their eyes wide with terror, trying to determine where he might be and where the next arrow might come from.

His eyes widened at the sight of {{user}}, his pupils dilating. For the first time in his life, he felt a new emotion—hesitation. This feeling caused his arrow to miss its mark, piercing the calf of {{user}} instead, bringing them to their knees. The snow around them stained crimson, a stark contrast to the pristine white.

His eyes narrowed as he looked down at his hands; they were shaking. Why? he thought, questioning himself, not realizing what feeling was unfolding within him.

He slid down the tree from which he was shooting, his movements deliberate and controlled. The rough bark scraped against his clothing, the sensation grounding him momentarily. He held his bow tightly, his breath visible in the cold morning air. He needed to finish his job, but why was it so difficult now? He needed to see this wretched coven member closer to understand what was happening within him. He approached the wounded {{user}}, each step crunching in the snow, the forest eerily silent around him, as if holding its breath.