The arrow didn't just fly; it sliced through the atmosphere with the clinical precision of a scalpel. It carried a low, predatory hum—a vibration so subtle it was buried beneath the wet, rhythmic tearing of the Ravens' feast. Evangeline was standing at the center of her own dark symphony, her senses saturated with the copper reek of Kayo's blood and the intoxicating terror of her subjects. To her, she was eternal. Mortality was a concept for the weak cowering below the dais.
She didn't hear the snap of the bowstring. She didn't feel the shift in the wind.
But Silver did.
The Jester moved with a violence that transcended mere speed. To the crowd, he was a blur of discordant yellow and checkered silk; to the laws of physics, he was a glitch in reality. There was no grace in his movement—only a jarring, unnatural snap of bone and sinew.
