Chapter 10 - THE ARCHER'S VOW
The sun dipped below the Santa Cruz mountains, painting the sky in brilliant shades of amber, violet, and gold.
I stood alone on the private archery range behind my father’s Atherton estate. The evening air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of eucalyptus and damp earth.
I pulled a single carbon arrow from the leather quiver, nocked it smoothly against the string, and raised the recurve bow. My posture was military-straight, my breathing deep and controlled. Panic didn't belong in my lungs; it never had.
Downrange, fifty yards out in the fading twilight, the red bullseye stared back at me.
I drew the string back to my cheek, closing my left eye to align the sights, feeling the absolute harmony of muscle, steel, and focus.
Release.
The string sang a crisp, clean note into the quiet evening air.
Thwack.
Directly through the exact center of the red ring.
I lowered the bow, a quiet, peaceful smile touching my lips. I reached up, my fingers lightly brushing the clean diamond stud on my left earlobe—a permanent reminder of where I had been, and how far I had climbed.
My father walked out from the shadow of the oak trees, clapping his hands softly in approval.
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“Still haven't lost your touch,” he said, stepping up beside me.
“Never will, Dad,” I replied, looking out over the sprawling horizon of a future I had built entirely with my own hands. “Never will.”
