The hut stood at the edge of the marsh where pack lands ended and old wilderness began.
No wolves lived here.
No patrols crossed the crooked wooden bridge stretched over black water and sinking reeds.
The place had always felt wrong.
That was precisely why Seraphine came here.
She dismounted slowly, tying her horse to the dead branch near the entrance. The animal shifted nervously beneath her hand, ears flattening toward the cabin as if it could sense what lived inside.
Even beasts felt it.
Magic lingered here.
Old magic.
The kind wolves preferred not to name.
Seraphine pushed the door open without knocking.
The air inside smelled of herbs, smoke, and something metallic beneath it. Bundles of dried roots hung from the rafters. Glass jars lined the walls, filled with powders, oil
