They did not mourn Maelis.
They marked her name into a ledger etched with old runes and older blood, a single line scored through the parchment with deliberate finality. In the chamber beneath the blackroot stones, where torchlight bent strangely and shadows refused to behave, the gathering stood in a half-circle and watched the sigils settle.
“Confirmed,” said the woman with inked eyes, her voice as dry as bone dust. “The bond ruptured exactly as designed. The subject—Ember Bloodstone—experienced acute grief, guilt fixation, and destabilization of her wolf. No residual tether remains.”
A low murmur rippled through the room. Satisfaction, not relief.
At the far end, the one they called the Arbiter rested both palms on the stone table. The surface was scarred with grooves from other mee
