Steady, relaxed stance. Nock. Draw. Aim. Loose. Adjust stance and relax. Nock. Draw. Aim. Loose. Over and over again, Cassandra practices on the range. Group practice helped, but it wasn’t enough, so she enrolled in private lessons.

It’s the nightmares - fuel for her growing fire, her growing fears of an unknown.

Cassandra is walking in the Hedge, alone. She can distinctly feel something following her, watching her, waiting for her. It is not just an eerie feeling. No, somehow this feels so real.

She walks along the path, keeping her eyes focused, her ears sharp. Nothing will catch her by surprise. Her bow is out, arrow nocked and ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice. In the distance, a Gate can be seen. Is this what she is looking for? It is unclear.

Each step she takes is silent, masterful. Her breathing is so slow, you might wonder if she’s breathing at all. So close. Almost there to the clearing.

Crack.

A twig on the ground cracking under her foot. The way it echoes in the hedge is unreal. It is as if it is a scream in the wind. The presence behind her looms. It is dark and terrible. It is closing in and she hasn’t even seen it. She doesn’t dare look back and she keeps going.

Fear is catching her, silent tears streaming down her face. I have to get home. I have to get home. Her grip on her bow is tightening. Will the adrenaline be enough to give her the strength she needs or will she freeze in place?

She keeps walking forward, her pace not changing, her care in not making a sound the same. Darkness looms over her. No… not darkness. Light. Bright white light - the darkness, her own shadow. Her heart nearly stops. Whatever it is, she knows she isn’t going to make it home. Not unless she fights. The Winter has finally been backed into a corner.

It takes a split second, but the next thing she knows, she’s drawn and released. The light is so bright, she’s practically blinded. It doesn’t matter, she takes out another arrow. Nock. Draw. Can’t aim, so she just releases. Over and over again, backing up as quickly as she can to the Hedge Gate. The light just continues to draw on her, threatening to consume her.

She runs out of arrows, but the dream always ends as she teeters on the edge of the gate, being pulled by whatever force has come for her. Sometimes she runs out of arrows before getting to the gate and is snatched. Whatever happens, there is always one part each nightmare shares: a scream, filled with intense grief and suffering, but it isn’t hers.

She needs to be quicker. Drawing and releasing needs to be second nature. Her movements need to not be restrained. Fear cannot consume her.

Again. Nock. Draw. Aim. Loose.