The night stretched deep and silent beyond the palace walls. In the distance, the howls of wolves echoed through the trees. Cloaked figures moved through the darkness, beneath that sound, hidden under layers of wild wolves.
They gathered at the forest's edge, where the moonlight barely touched the earth. A circle of hooded witches waited, their faces hidden by masks stitched from black veils. Their fire burned cold, bluish, strange, feeding off herbs that smoked thick and acrid.
When Eirene arrived, she was unrecognizable. She wore no crown or jewels, only a dark robe covering her head to toe. Her hands trembled as she pulled down her hood. Sweat glistened at her temples despite the chill. The faint green marks creeping along her neck were hard to ignore. Her power was decaying, and she knew it.
One of the witches, the tallest among them, stepped forward. Her voice rasped like dry bark. "You are late, Queen of Lycanthria."
