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.
Moments later, the doors opened to reveal three women in long cloaks, their movements graceful, deliberate. At their center walked a tall woman with silver-streaked black hair braided down her back. Her eyes were dark, sharp, and deeply unreadable. Power clung to her like a second skin.
"The Head of the Eastern Coven," the guard announced. "Lady Elira."
Roan stood. "Thank you for coming."
Elira stepped forward, her gaze sweeping over the assembled council, lingering only briefly on Roan before she inclined her head. "The request was unexpected. But we came."
She took her seat without waiting to be offered one. The two witches behind her remained standing, silent sentinels.
Roan returned to his chair. "You are aware of the illness spreading beyond the city's gates?"
Elira raised a single brow. "We have heard whispers. Be clear, King of Wolves. What is it you want from us?"
Before Roan could answer, Wren leaned forward sharply, his jaw tight. "What we want," he said, voice cold, "is an explanation. You claim you live peacefully among us, but now this—this plague comes out of nowhere, spreading across packs like wildfire, robbing wolves of their minds."
Elira did not flinch. "You believe we caused it."
"I know you did something," Wren snapped. "It is after all in your nature to twist magic to ruin."
A hush followed his words.
Elira turned her head toward Roan, ignoring Wren entirely. "Your councilor speaks boldly, if not wisely."
Roan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Lady Elira, forgive his outburst. He does not speak for the throne."
Wren scowled. "You are going to let her sit there and pretend her people aren't capable of this? We have seen what witchcraft can do."
"I said enough, Wren." Roan's voice cracked like a whip. "If you interrupt this meeting again, you'll be removed."
Wren's eyes widened slightly at the threat, but he leaned back, lips pressed into a thin, furious line.
Roan turned back to Elira. "Please. I do not presume guilt. I only seek understanding. This illness spreads without cause or pattern. It doesn't respond to our healers. It breaks the bond between wolf and man. If it reaches the inner cities, the devastation will be irreversible. I need help."
For the first time, something in Elira's expression softened—just slightly. "There is wisdom in asking. I respect that."
She folded her hands on the table, her long fingers pale against the black wood. "We have seen signs of magical unrest. Not this illness, exactly. But surges in wild magic. Something is stirring beneath the surface of this land. Something that does not belong."
Roan's jaw tensed. "Something... foreign?"
She nodded. "It does not feel natural. Not born of witches or wolves."
Roan exchanged a glance with one of his generals. "Are you saying it could be older? Or darker?"
"Possibly both." Elira's voice was calm, almost too calm. "But we do not know. What I do know is this: if you wait until it reaches your doorstep, it will be too late."
"And yet," Wren muttered, "you say you don't know anything. Only vague warnings and riddles."
Roan turned to him again, his voice laced with steel. "Wren, enough."
The room was silent once more. Elira exhaled slowly.
"I did not come here to trade barbs," she said. "I came because if your wolves fall, so does the balance. We live in delicate harmony, even if that is not always comfortable. This... illness, whatever it is, threatens us all."
Roan leaned forward, folding his hands tightly. "Then will you help us?"
Elira studied him in silence for a moment. "Yes."
Relief flickered through the chamber, quickly masked.
"But I must warn you," she continued, "we will not be able to fight it alone. You will need more than spells and potions. This is not just an affliction of the body, but of magic itself. And magic," her gaze flicked briefly to Wren, "is not so easily tamed by brute strength or suspicion."
Roan nodded solemnly. "What do you need from us?"
"I will send my best seers to the villages," she said. "They will need access to the afflicted. No guards, no interference."
Roan hesitated, then nodded again. "Granted."
She rose to her feet. "Good. We leave at dawn."
Roan stood with her. "If you learn anything—anything at all—I want to be told immediately."
"You will be," she said, then added more quietly, "But prepare yourself, King. Some truths are not easy to bear."
Then she turned, her two companions flanking her once more, and walked from the chamber without another word.
The doors closed behind them with a heavy finality.
Roan sat back down heavily. The room buzzed with a mixture of unease and tentative hope.
"I know that witch is hiding something," Wren muttered.
Roan ignored him. "She is right about one thing—this illness will not wait."
"What do we do in the meantime?" another advisor asked.
"We prepare," Roan said. "We increase patrols. We isolate new cases as best we can. And we trust—for now—that the witches are willing to help."
"But if they're not?" the general asked quietly.
Roan's eyes darkened. "Then we pray the gods send us something stronger than magic."
Later that night, Roan stood on the balcony outside his chamber, staring into the dark horizon. The city lay quiet beneath him, unaware of the storm that brewed at its borders.
For the first time in weeks, he felt something shifting—an undercurrent of unease mixed with fragile hope.
He closed his eyes, the image of Elira's knowing gaze still lingering.
He wasn't sure if he had invited salvation into his court today.
Or the first wave of war.