The elf queen fought with every fiber of her ancient, divine being.
She poured every last reserve of her will into reclaiming control of her own body, muscles straining so hard that veins stood out like cords beneath her flawless, luminous skin.
Sweat, rare and unwelcome, beaded on her forehead and trickled down her temples despite the eternal grace that usually kept her untouched by such mortal weaknesses.
Her fingers refused to obey, locked around the bowstring in a death grip she could not release.
Her arms trembled with the effort, shoulders burning, joints screaming in protest.
The more she resisted, the tighter the invisible chains became, wrapping around her nerves like barbed wire.
The realization sank in slowly, coldly, like poison spreading through her veins: she was completely, hopelessly trapped inside her own flesh.
Hopelessness bloomed in her chest, a cold, suffocating weight that made her divine heart stutter for the first time in millennia.
