--
As he neared the edge of the forest — where trees blackened and wilted and the air grew thick with something unnatural — the scent of rot and spellcraft filled his nostrils.
He slowed.
Shifted back into his human form, panting, naked and drenched in sweat.
The wind whispered.
The shadows twisted.
He stood at the threshold of the cursed glade — the border of the Witch’s Domain.
His lips curled in a sneer, but his eyes were wild with purpose.
“I come to bargain.”
The trees answered with silence.
Then, a voice — so old, so cold, it scraped his bones — whispered from the dark:
“And what will you offer me, wolf of the broken throne?”
Lord Peter didn’t flinch.
He stepped forward.
“Anything. Just save my son.”
--
Back in the capital, the court was still burning with rumors, cha
