Edra Ashveil bent her hunting bow at dawn and felt the wood fight her the wrong way. The upper limb twisted, throwing her aim a full hand's width off the target nailed to the pine. She had twelve days until the royal tournament, where the champion of Northfall would be crowned. She had trained her whole life for it. And she could not qualify with a warped stick. She lived high in a ranger outpost among the branches, a lookout platform wrapped in weathered wood. From the railing she could see the target below and every arrow she'd missed. She had won the local shoots on skill alone. Skill would not fix seasoned oak that had dried crooked over a hard winter. The qualifiers judged your weapon before they judged your shot. A crooked bow meant the door closed before she reached it. Edra climbed down and walked to the one place that might save her season. The master bowyer's workshop stood two-storied and warm, its front rack lined with finished bows. Timber lay stacked under the eaves. Wood shavings covered the floor like snow. Inside, the bowyer worked a limb with a drawknife, peeling long curls of wood without looking up. "Warped," he said, before she spoke. He had watched her hold the bow at her side. "I can smell green wood that's turned. Bring it here." She handed it over. He flexed it once, grunted, and set it aside like kindling. "I can build you a tournament bow," he said. "Yew backed with horn. Six weeks of curing, done right." "I have twelve days." He finally looked at her. His eyes were flat, honest. "Then I can't help you. Rush the glue and it fails at full draw. It'll snap in your hand on the shooting line, in front of the whole court." He returned to his drawknife. "I won't put my mark on a bow that breaks." Edra stood in the shavings and made herself hear it plainly. No bow. No time. No entry. Everything she had aimed at, gone before the first shot. "There's one other way," the bowyer said, not stopping his hands. "Not one I'd send my daughter to." He nodded toward the window. Beyond the trees, a brick tower rose against the gray sky, its masonry cracked, its narrow windows black. Above the gate, mounted on the wall, hung a single bow. Even from here she saw it catch the light like nothing wooden should. "An old shooting bow hangs on that wall," he said. "Elite work. Been there longer than I've lived. Nobody who goes in comes back willing to talk about it." Edra looked at the tower a long time. Twelve days. One weapon in all of Northfall she could still reach. She picked up her broken bow, tucked it under her arm, and started down the path toward the bastion.