Ronan
The council chamber smells of iron and old smoke. Every wall bears the weight of Blackthorn’s history.
Wolf skulls mounted between the iron-banded windows, pelts from kills that marked turning points in our territory. The war table dominates the room, scarred and stained from decades of maps, blades, and the occasional fist.
The captains take their places in a loose semicircle, their eyes shifting between me and the parchment spread in the center. I let the silence stretch just long enough to remind them that this is my table, and no one speaks until I give them leave.
When I finally break it, my voice carries like a blade across stone.
“Redmaw’s not circling for sport anymore. Their scouts are probing our borders with purpose. Pairs sent into the marsh, the birch grove, and-”
