Quaritch watched from the ridge, visor dark, breath steady.

Below, the RDA site never saw her coming.

She dropped out of the clouds like a thought turning lethal—ikran wings folding tight, wind screaming past as she loosed the first arrow mid-dive. Power cut. Floodlights died in sequence, the compound stuttering into confusion. By the time the alarms tried to find their voice, she was already banking hard, climbing, circling.

Efficient. Beautiful. Infuriatingly clean.

Quaritch tracked her without thinking, muscle memory syncing to the rhythm of her attack. One pass—fuel tanks. Another—comms. She never lingered. Never rushed. Each arrow was a decision already made long before it flew.

He caught himself smiling.

“Hell of a way to fight,” he muttered, equal parts appraisal and awe. No guns. No air support. Just bow, beast, and nerve.

The ikran screamed again as she skimmed low, arrows blooming into sparks along the perimeter. The site folded in on itself—systems down, personnel scattered, nothing left worth defending.

When she pulled up and vanished back into the sky, Quaritch exhaled, slow and impressed.

He’d trained soldiers his whole life. He knew force. He knew intimidation.

This?

This was dominance without noise.

And watching her do it—watching the RDA lose to something they couldn’t outgun or outthink—Quaritch understood, with a clarity that surprised him, exactly why Pandora kept winning.

Because some warriors didn’t need metal to make a point.

They just needed the sky.