The scent hit Rowan before the wind changed—blood, thick and sour with grief.
He stood at the eastern ridge, just beyond the trees where Mira’s cloak still hung like a flag of surrender. He hadn't spoken since arriving. Hadn't moved. The torn fabric dangled from a low branch, soaked to the seam, and beneath it, the message remained—etched with claw, not blade.
"The crown you wear is stolen. We are coming to collect."
Behind him, the forest had fallen silent.
Not even the birds dared speak in the Hollow now.
The Mourning Bell
The sound echoed across the valley—deep, low, drawn from the heartwood bell carved by ancestors long before Rowan was born.
One ring for each fallen.
The bell tolled once.
And still, it felt like a death knell for more than just Mira.
Tamsin stood with her he
