The Blackwood pack house, once a beacon of rustic warmth and laughter in the heart of the southern valley, had grown bitterly cold.
Without Ariah’s steady, quiet magic tending to the hearths, the fires seemed to swallow wood and spit out only choking ash. The great hall, usually fragrant with the scent of fresh pine needles, beeswax, and rich, simmering stews, now smelled of stagnant damp and burnt grease. The polished oak floors were dull, coated in a fine layer of grit, and the laundry piles in the washroom had grown into a mountain of sour linen.
Clara stood in the center of the kitchen, her delicate face flushed red with frustration, her perfectly manicured nails ruined. She was trying to soothe little Leo, who was screaming at the top of his lungs, his toddler teeth coming in.
"Hus
