[b]Injimo![/b]

Has she fought...? 

No, she has not fought Kholessia the Flame Autoklave, who guards the Sealant Hills. She spent those hours sitting by the clock, learning to lunge to one side every nine seconds exactly, just so she would be ready to teach Heron if she ever needed to learn. No, she has not fought Meridiyen Twotusk, the Boar of the Earth, and the month spent learning to walk balanced on speartips was only so that Heron might not fall into her quicksand. And she did not learn to fly because she ever thought this moment would come.

But muscle memory is a hell of a thing.

The hurricane potion hits the ground and she is leaping over it a moment later. Solid rip on the windchute cable at the exact apex of her jump, catching the updraft and hurtling herself up into the sky. Just like she practiced for hours and hours in the mechanical junkyard of the training ground, where creatures larger than life were simulated with conveyor belts, mechanical cranes, and intricate obstacle courses layered with traps. She goes up. Up, away from the floor that is the Morning, who might twist perilously beneath her. Up, away from the branches that are the Morning, who might snare and hold her. Up, away from the eyes of the Morning, who might realize their mistake and see that she is not a hero after all. That edge is all she has to exploit; if the Morning has taken her for Heron, then she will expect a spark of genius in this battle. 

She soars high on the most perilous of hopes, based on nothing and demanding everything. That the Morning will not see her stupid, rehearsed attack for what it is: a step-by-step replication of exactly the way Heron fought her the last time.

She nears the apex of her flight and she releases the windchute to whirl off into the sky, a kite in tiger's heraldry. She draws her bow. There will be a second when she ceases to rise but has not yet begun to fall when she will have perfect stability to fire a perfect shot. 

And she does. 

She could live in that moment forever. All the strength, speed and training of her life abruptly called upon and demonstrated in a single moment of sublime perfection. She can feel it in her muscles, in the callouses on her fingers, on the scars on her back, on the sweat of her hairline, on the surface of her beating heart. 

It feels so good that she almost forgets that she is not firing an enchanted obsidian arrow capable of piercing dragonscale, but an ordinary hunting broadhead that will shatter pointlessly when it strikes the rising Morning upon her brow. Perhaps if she had given herself a moment she might have thought up a better plan, one that did not waste her one perfect technique on an attack that had no possibility of inflicting damage. But, as was said, muscle memory is a hell of a thing.

[Fighting her: 7
Take a string
Create an opportunity for an ally]