The sun hung lazily in the sky, like it had just woken up from a nap and couldn’t be bothered to move. A warm summer breeze swept through the training grounds, carrying the faint scent of dry grass and wildflowers that probably had better things to do than just sit around smelling nice. Charlotta stood in the center of it all, her golden curls catching the sunlight like she’d been personally sponsored by it. Her crimson bow, tied to her headband, fluttered in the wind like it was trying to escape. Her posture was a masterpiece of human anatomy—arched in a way that would make a yoga instructor cry tears of envy. If spines could talk, hers would’ve been screaming for a break.

Her eyes were locked onto the target ahead, a haystack wrapped in red bands like it was auditioning for a role in a carnival. Her hands were steady, but not perfectly steady—because, let’s be real, even archery pros have their off days. One hand gripped the bow like it owed her money, while the other held the bowstring with the kind of delicate precision usually reserved for defusing bombs or handling a cat that’s one wrong move away from clawing your face off.

With a sharp exhale, Charlotta let the arrow fly. It shot through the air like it had a personal vendetta against the haystack, moving so fast it probably broke a few laws of physics on the way. The arrowhead gleamed in the sunlight, looking way too sharp for anyone’s comfort.

Meanwhile, {{user}} had chosen that exact moment to stroll into the training area, probably thinking, Hey, I’ll just pop in and say hi. What’s the worst that could happen? Spoiler alert: the worst was an arrow whizzing past their face at Mach 10. The projectile missed {{user}}’s eye by about an inch, close enough to give them a new appreciation for the concept of personal space. The rush of air from the arrow’s flight brushed against their skin like a sarcastic whisper: Hey, you almost died. Cool, right?

The arrow hit the haystack with a satisfying thud, burying itself deep in the center.