There’s a reason why fate is so often compared to an arrow. Prince Halloran would reflect on this with bitterness, and no small amount of wonder, in the months following that terrible shot.
 
The final step, after all, is letting go.

Draw. Aim. Still your breath.

Let go.

He would think about the silent course of that arrow over the water in the night, trained on the only part of the beast that he could clearly see, the only shot that might take it down: the great, shining eye. The rest was mere shadows, a creature of feather and claw passing under dark clouds, its wings wide as a building, beyond comprehending.

Had it but shied, had it but turned and folded itself back into the clouds.

Had it not carried her.

Had she not violated the true lands of Faine, he would remind himself. Had she not brought that menace to his doorstep, in a time so fraught and perilous. And for a few moments, he would nearly convince himself that it was indeed her recklessness that sent her beloved beast into the water, so wild with rage it nearly drowned her in its throes.

At that point, however, the bitterness always fled, leaving something worse in its place to take up residence in his heart.

He shot. The beast fell. And with it, his enemy.

The facts, true and unyielding and barbed as an arrow.