Your father mentioned something along those lines, last we spoke.

[Though she keeps mum on just when that was, and just what his color commentary had included, for the sake of diplomacy. Tricia glides alongside him, as graceful as though she was meandering across some grand ballroom, rather than a city on the brink of an attack.

Her own bow, when summoned, is a glittering, thorny thing, elegant and dangerous in equal measure. An arrow glimmers to life, but she makes no move to release it just yet.]

Leave it to me.