Since Aria wasn't fast on her feet, she had always relied on her unmatched skill in guiding the air. And she was so good at it—so precise, so instinctive—that even someone like Alaric, known for his sharp senses and speed, had trouble keeping up with her.
She stood at the edge of the track, calm and focused, pulling back the string of her compact bow. The wheels spun rapidly, whirring like turbines, while the air around them began to compress, coiling tighter and tighter with invisible force.
It wasn't just wind—it was something shaped, guided, focused by her. The pressure built steadily, forming into the shape of an arrow on her bowstring. The air hissed and trembled, the wheels now spinning like miniature tornadoes, funnelling all their chaotic force into her shot.
As the arrow formed and refined itself, almost like it had a mind of its own, reality itself seemed to ripple. The air bent and warped as if trying to resist what was about to come.
