“Are you sure about this?” Thorne asked again, his voice low but taut with worry, like a bowstring pulled too tight.
Evanna didn’t glance up from the parchment on the small table between them. She exhaled through her nose and answered him for what felt like the hundredth time.
“Yes, Thorne. I’m sure. We can’t avoid this forever.”
The den was unusually quiet for the hour, and outside the solid stone walls, the forest stirred with the sounds of the night—owls hooting, wind brushing against pine needles, and the distant murmur of running water from the river below. A fire crackled softly in the hearth behind them, casting shadows across the worn stone floor and giving the room a warm, amber glow. It should have felt safe. Peaceful, even. But the air was tense with the weight of what they
