The illness crept like a fog through the border villages—slow at first, barely noticeable. Then swift and vicious. By the time Roan received word that three more outer settlements had gone silent, it was no longer something that could be ignored or contained. The sickness struck with no discernible pattern. Children and elders alike fell ill. Fevers burned through bodies faster than healers could treat, and no common remedy brought relief. Wolves lost control of their shifts, eyes turning feral even in human form.
Now, Roan sat in the council chamber, his shoulders rigid, hands clasped before him on the table's edge. Around him, his advisors murmured among themselves, voices low and anxious. Tension hung thick in the air.
A knock came at the heavy doors. The guard stepped inside. "The witches are here, my king."
Roan nodded once. "Send them in."
The room fell silent.
