THWIP—CRACK!
The arrow tore through the air, landing far from the center of the target. It clung precariously to the outer edge of the straw, quivering as though on the verge of falling.
Hermi stared at the result and let out a frustrated sigh. It was her third day attempting to replicate that first shot, yet she hadn't managed to find her luck a second time.
The Atmospheric Sickness kept doing its thing. The harder she fought to steady the dancing visuals in her sight, the more the center of the target slipped from her aim.
When she shifted her gaze to the nearby lanes, she caught the archers watching, their expressions thick with contempt. Some stole a look before turning away at once. Others made no effort to conceal the smirks tugging at their mouths or the mockery in their eyes.
Hermi had no luxury to dwell on their pitiful manners. With only four days left before the test, she was facing a very real possibility: she might actually die a shriveled mummy in a cave, long before the Atmospheric Sickness had a chance to claim her.
She reached for another arrow in the pouch slung at her back, only to find it empty. Exhaling sharply, she strode toward the target to retrieve her failed shots. Halfway down the lane, a sound tore through the air, aimed directly at her.
WHOOSH!
"Arghhhhhhhh!"
Hermi cried out as a sharp pain exploded in her upper left arm. She clutched the wound, collapsing into a crouch as the shock rippled through her nervous system.
It was a deep, searing cut that felt as though the flesh had been sliced clean open. Blood seeped through the torn white sleeve of her linen shirt, soaking her fingers and staining the fabric a dark crimson.
"Oh no, what a terrible stray shot that was," a voice rang out from the shooting line. The tone was languid, entirely devoid of guilt.
Hermi clenched her teeth, gasping for air as she fought to steady her pulse against the shock. After a minute of focused effort, she forced herself to turn around. She needed to see who was brazen enough to claim such a malevolently precise shot was merely a 'stray.'
The culprit was a man with curly hair and a square jaw. His arms were thick with the muscle typical of archers, though his height was no greater than hers. He did not even have the decency to feign guilt. Instead, his mouth twitched up into a blatant sneer.
Beside him, the other archers shared the same expression. None of them looked like the chivalrous knights they were supposed to be, nor did any bother to step forward and assist their bleeding Queen.
"My apologies, Your Majesty," the curly-haired man called out at last, apparently satisfied with the sight of her pain. "Can you get to your feet yourself, or do you require a sturdy hand?"
Hermi turned away, forcing her features into silence as she fought for control. When she finally managed to get to her feet and turn around, her face had become a blank mask, betraying no sign of the pain lancing through her arm.
"What is your name, archer?" Hermi demanded. Her voice was firm and steady, carrying clearly across the training lanes.
"It is Dante, Your Majesty," the man replied, his tone dripping with smug confidence. "It is unusual for me to land such a bad shot. I must be terribly worn out today."
Hermi held her commanding tone firmly in place. "Dante, is it? Perhaps it is time you were retired from the archery division."
Dante's expression twisted instantly. "What did you just say?"
"I believe His Majesty would not tolerate such horrible skill among his ranks, regardless of how tired you are. A fatal mistake like yours is more likely to kill a knight before you could kill any actual monster."
Dante stormed toward Hermi, his face dark with fury. A few archers followed, moving in a synchronized rhythm that suggested this was a pre-planned scheme.
"You think your voice holds any weight with His Majesty?" Dante thundered, his boots stomping the volcanic stone in aggressive strides.
Hermi frowned, her hand still clamped over her bleeding arm. "What nonsense are you spouting? I am the Queen. My words matter to my husband, your King."
Dante stopped three paces away, flanked by his gang. He let out a sharp laugh, the sound as scornful as his gaze.
"The entire fortress knows he declared you unwanted the moment you arrived, Queen," he sneered. "You should hear the servants. The gossip is anything but pretty."
Hermi narrowed her eyes, calculating the odds. Even if the entire fortress lacked respect for her, these men shouldn't have the audacity to wound the Queen in the open air of the Inner Yard, with dozens of witnesses watching. Whatever hatred they held against her was something deeper than a simple cruel jest.
"Is this the discipline the Ferramonte Army prides itself on?" Hermi shot back, lifting a brow. "It seems your sense of duty is as wretched as your skill with a bow."
Dante's face burned a deep red, his hands curling into fists. He raised one, ready to launch a punch at Hermi's face. Before he could land the hit, a voice rang out from the edge of the lanes. It was a resounding command that made every archer's shoulders immediately flinch in fear.
"Dante! What is this? Why is the Queen injured in the middle of the shooting lanes?"
Without turning their gazes toward the voice, every soul on the field recognized it was Commander Otho.
"Commander!" The group snapped into attention, along with all the archers still watching from the periphery.
Dante stepped forward, head lowered, suddenly far more subdued than the audacious display he had put on moments before.
"It was a tragic accident, Commander," Dante claimed. "Her Majesty wandered off her lane just as I fired. Now she blames me, threatening to remove me from the division."
A light-haired archer in the group quickly added, his voice earnest. "Dante speaks the truth, Commander. I saw it. We only gathered here to seek justice. Her Majesty is being unreasonable beyond measure."
Another also spoke up. "Any of our brothers here can testify to it. I beg your fair judgment, Commander."
Otho squinted at his men, his face darkening. His gaze shifted toward Hermi, who keenly observed every flicker of his expression. She tilted her head, silently judging whether this man was cut from the same cloth as the liars before her.
"Do you truly believe I would act so foolishly, Commander?" she challenged coolly. "I, who face a test from His Majesty in four days, would wander off and get myself injured just to spite a lowly knight?"
At Hermi's icy tone, Otho stiffened. He swept his gaze over her, eyes lingering on the blood-soaked sleeve clinging to her arm. At last, he dipped his head low in a ceremoniously solemn bow.
"My deepest apologies for failing to govern my men, Your Majesty. I shall discipline them properly to atone for this mistake."
At the Commander's verdict, the group erupted like startled chickens.
"But Commander! We did nothing wrong!"
"You can't punish us! We haven't done a thing!"
Otho turned toward them, his expression set in stone. "Mistake or not, you committed an offense greater than injuring Her Majesty. What sort of knights stand idle without offering aid while their Queen bleeds? Your discipline is lacking, and you show no chivalry worthy of a man toward a lady in distress."
He turned toward the archers who had remained at a distance, watching the chaos unfold. "Squad Three! Drag these wretches away for their punishment. Twenty lashes and barracks duty for one full week. For Dante, twenty more lashes!"