I stumbled backward onto the front steps of the longhouse and slid several feet across the icy ground, snow soaking through my clothes.
Snow drifted down in silence, broken only by the sound of the heavy iron bolt sliding into place.
I picked myself up, brushing snow from my clothes, my dignity in tatters. The cold bit into my skin, but my wolf's warmth kept me from freezing.
At least I still had my traveling cart and the horses.
I climbed inside and wrapped myself in the spare furs, but the wind still found its way through the cracks. The wheels would never move through this ice—the horses couldn't find purchase on the frozen ground.
No traveling tonight. I'd have to make do here.
The provisions I'd brought—all preserved meats and honeyed drinks for the gathering—sat untouched in the storage compartment. At least I wouldn't go hungry.
My heart burned with injustice. But I'd be damned if I didn't take care of myself.
Once I'd eaten my fill, I pulled out my communication crystal.
Almost without thinking, I sent a pulse to an old friend I hadn't spoken to in many moons.
"You trained at the healer-coven with Raven Ashthorne, right? Do you remember her?"
The reply came fast, the crystal warming with urgency: "Raven Ashthorne is still ALIVE? She didn't die?"
I blinked at the glowing surface. "She's alive. Perfectly fine, as far as I can tell."
The crystal pulsed and flickered for three full minutes before her response appeared.
"Why are you asking about her?"
Her tone had shifted—serious now. I matched it.
"She's at my den. Planning to spend Midwinter Turning Night with my pack."
What followed was an avalanche. Over a dozen voice-imbued messages, each one filled to bursting with words.
My stomach dropped. Hazel Frostvale was known for being scattered, never using ten words when two would do. Something was very wrong.
Her voice poured through the crystal, urgent and unrelenting.
"Get her out of there. She carries a blood-rot curse. A severe one."
"With what she has, a simple wound-fever could kill her. She's been carrying it for three years—I was there when she got diagnosed at our healer-coven."
"How could you let her into your den? Have you lost your senses?"
"..."
More messages followed—sealed healer documents, curse-trace records, detailed examinations.
But no matter how much she sent, three words burned brightest.
Blood-rot curse.
A severe one.