Ronan
The office smells of smoke, old leather, and blood dried into the cracks of the wood.
Maps sprawl across the table, overlapping in layers of scars and borders. Knives pin the corners down. Each mark is a choice I’ve made. Each line a wound.
Blackthorn territory stretches wide, but beyond it lies Redmaw country. The shadow in the trees, always pushing, always testing. Looking for a way to take what’s ours.
Mara stands at my shoulder, braid swinging as she leans in. Her eyes are sharp as flint in the lamplight, catching every detail.
“The scouts have reported seeing three of them. Claw marks in the bark to mark their path. Fresh tracks in the snow.”
I drag my finger across the northern ridge. “Here?”
She nods. “Past the old watchtower. Bold little bastards.”
My jaw tightens.
