Rhea Everwood
The silence was the most unnerving part, my life had been a symphony of quiet threats and unnerving omens—a dead raven on my pillow, a chilling whisper on the wind that no one else could hear, the scent of nightshade lingering in my locked study. It was a constant, low-grade hum of malice that kept my senses sharp, my nerves frayed. And then, four days ago, it stopped. The string that had been pulled taut, threatening to snap at any moment, suddenly went slack.
That lack of pressure was more terrifying than the tension itself. A predator doesn't stop stalking its prey unless it's found a new way into the den.
This restlessness followed me from my bed, through my morning training, and into the stifling formality of the Elder's council meeting. I sat at the head of the grea
