Feran Stormweather had not expected the smell. His fingers gripped the arrow loosely. He took a moment to look down at the fletching. It was symmetrical, the white feathers stiff and even like the soldiers ahead of him. He had heard stories of grand battles and heroic deeds but never been a part of them. His father, Dillan, stood three feet away from him. His father, who had slain great creatures, battled men, taken on the greatest of odds. He looked to his father, wanting to ask about the scent of flowe...