Chapter 1289

Chapter 1289:

But I quickly hardened my tone and ordered, “Send men to scour the bottom of the cliff. I want proof she’s dead or alive. If you can’t pull this off, you’re better off dead yourself!”

“Got it!” The man scrambled away.

Silence reclaimed the room. I sank back into the leather sofa, the dull throb in my wounded shoulder pulsing like a reminder of unfinished business.

Leonardo, that pathetic old fool, captured without a fight?

Frustration boiled over, and I hurled a glass at the wall. “Useless old man!” The shards scattered, but I only chuckled quietly to myself.

The plan had gone sideways, but it wasn’t a complete loss. At least Makenna—the real threat—was out of the picture.

“Mr. Harrison.” A servant’s gentle knock came at the door. “Prince Colt is waiting for you at the archery range.”

My face stiffened.

What could Colt possibly want now? I hoped he wasn’t here to stir up trouble. Even if Makenna was gone, this was no time to cross Colt. I needed to keep things respectful, at least for now.

“Understood.” I rose, straightened my robe, and adjusted my expression in the mirror. After a brief pause, I pushed through the pain in my shoulder and made my way to the archery range.

Antoni’s POV:

Whoosh!

As I entered the archery range, the sharp hiss of an arrow slicing through the air met my ears.

Lifting my gaze, I spotted Colt at the center of the field. His slender fingers had just released the bowstring, and the arrow struck the bullseye a hundred paces away with pinpoint precision.

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“Your Highness, your archery is unparalleled—no one in the entire Wizard Clan could rival you,” I said quickly, hurrying forward with a practiced, fawning smile.

Colt didn’t bother to look up. He casually drew another arrow from his quiver, his profile sharp as if carved from stone, a faint, icy smirk tugging at his lips. “Antoni,” he said abruptly, his gaze flicking to the prosthetic arm grafted to my left side. “How’s that arm treating you? Getting the hang of it?”

My right hand curled into a fist instinctively. A ghost of pain pulsed at the stump, the memory of Makenna’s sword severing my arm flashing vividly through my mind.

But in Colt’s presence, I swallowed the rage simmering within and answered meekly, “Thanks to your kindness, Your Highness. It’s… serviceable.”

To my surprise, Colt thrust his longbow toward me, one eyebrow arched slightly. “Why don’t you take a shot?”

My chest tightened.

The prosthetic, fitted just two weeks ago, still fumbled with simple tasks like holding a fork—drawing a bow was out of the question.

But Colt’s faintly taunting expression left me no choice. I gritted my teeth and accepted the bow.

The bowstring’s cold bite sent a shiver through my fingers.

Awkwardly, I notched an arrow and pulled. The prosthetic’s gears groaned with a harsh click under the strain.

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