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He crouched down beside his traveling pack that he had placed beside his armor stand. He rustled about in it and pulled out a single arrow, long and thick and black.
In the course of the war, Methaniel had seen many of the arrows the Naemer warriors used against his forces. Always they had been the same; smooth, slender, and crafted from the same brown wood. They never had a steel head, as this one did, but instead were made of sharpened rock or flint, filed so meticulously and closely as to make a deadly point and a razors edge. And always they bore the feathers of the same bird; a bird he had seen but once, a great hawk whose name he did not know and was sacred to the Naemer people. This arrow bore no such feathers.
Methaniel stood before the firelight, gazed upon the arrow, and pondered.
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