[Lyra POV]
Twang.
An arrow of pure green wind mana hissed through the air, cutting a perfect line through the falling leaves.
It struck the target, a small wooden fruit hung three hundred meters away, dead center.
Splat.
The fruit exploded.
"Too loud," Lyra whispered, her ears twitching in irritation.
She stood on the highest branch of the World Tree, thousands of feet above the ground.
Here, the wind didn't just blow; it screamed. The air was thin, cold, and biting. It was the only place she could think.
Twang.
Another arrow. Another hit.
"Too bright."
She frowned, looking at the lingering trail of neon green light the arrow left behind.
To any other elf, her archery was perfection. She was a 4th Order Ranger, capable of hitting a mosquito's wing from a kilometer away. But to Lyra, every shot felt… wrong.
Ever since the Slaver Fortress, the wind didn't feel the same.
When she summoned her mana, it didn't feel light and breezy like it used to. It felt heavy.
