Silverfang Camp
Four nights after the retreat The wind cut sharp across the plateau, carrying the promise of snow. Ronan’s camp was a place of coiled tension wolves moving with lowered heads, fires kept low, the air thick with the scent of smoke and barely contained violence.Ronan stood in his command tent, maps spread before him, a horn of dark wine untouched. The warlock Varak sat across the table gaunt, robed in ragged black, eyes glowing with stolen crimson light, fingers stained with old blood.Varak’s voice was dry as dead leaves. “The Evergreen Coven blocked you with earth magic. I can counter it. Break their vines. Turn their wards to ash.”Ronan’s ice blue eyes narrowed. “The price?”Varak smiled, teeth sharp. “A share of Blackthorn land. And a drop of the child’s blood when it’s bo
