Fernando’s pov
Morgath dropped the severed wolf paw into the iron cauldron, and a thick plume of black smoke burst toward the canvas roof of the tent.
The stench hit me first—burnt hair, iron, and a heavy, metallic sweetness that made my nostrils flare. The witch chanted under her breath in a low, guttural rasp, her gnarled fingers stirring the bubbling liquid with a peeled bone.
Edith stood near the tent entrance, her arms crossed tight over her chest, watching the pot with dark, hungry eyes.
"How long will it take?" Edith demanded, her voice tight with impatience. "The Twilight patrols move every two hours. If Cody notices I'm gone, he'll send scouts."
"Patience, girl," I grunted, not looking up from the flames. "A fake mark isn't a quick trick. If it doesn't smell exactly like Nash
