Aria*
The next war council smelled of wet wool, ink, and nerves.
Lucian had rolled out the big border map again, pinning the corners with stones. The witch’s cabin X sat like a wound near the northern edge. Red pins marked recent omens and disturbances; little wolf carved tokens showed our usual patrol routes.
We were a small group this time.
Lucian at the head of the table.
Darius at his right shoulder.
Rhea against the wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
Elder Rowan is a weary but alert.
Holt, scowling as always.
And me, on the other side of the table, hands braced on the wood, trying not to stare too long at that little X.
Lucian tapped the map with one blunt finger.
“She’s here,” he said. “Or close enough that her stink leaks into our forest. We take the fight to her. We need a
