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Rost aims for the Carja's head.
A father's rage is a terrible thing. It drove him into exile, to strip his soul, to death and blood and the edges of the earth and nothing but the silence of an Outcast at the end if it all.
It steadies his hand, sharpens his sight. Greyed his hair faster than it should, with such a daughter such as Aloy. Goads him to risk losing advantage of surprise without inflicting injury for the chance to remove threat without delay. It's a small target, but even the sturdiest armor is no match for machine plate - and Rost has driven arrows through enough of that.
The shadowed figure crumples, body falling in unworthy prostration towards All Mother's peak.
Aloy crumples too, her throat weeping red into the snow. A worse wound than any she has yet suffered, but not deadly. Not yet. Not while Rost still lives and has hands to tend and bind.
He has given her to the Tribe, but for now, for this, he can keep her still.