The summons came at twilight.
Not urgent.
Not frantic.
But weighted.
Elara found the Pack Healer in the lower chamber beneath the east wing, where stone walls held the scent of herbs and old ink. Candles burned low along carved shelves lined with jars of crushed root and dried leaves. The air felt dense, like breath before a confession.
"You sent for me," Elara said quietly.
The Healer did not turn at once. She stood over a long wooden table covered in parchment and what appeared to be faded genealogical scrolls.
"Yes."
Her voice carried something different tonight. Not authority. Not alarm.
Reverence.
Elara stepped closer.
"Is someone hurt."
"No."
The Healer finally turned, her lined face grave but luminous in candlelight.
"It is you."
Elara's pulse shifted faintly.
"What the hell does that mean."
The Healer almost smiled at the bluntness.
"Sit."
Elara did not sit.
"Just say it."
The Healer exhaled softly.
"Very well."
She gestured to the parchment.
