"…Sonnar's cracked teeth."
Toven blinked. "What?"
"It's a curse," Mireilla said, setting her cup down with a soft clink. "Local thing. From where I grew up."
Lucavion leaned forward, curiosity flickering behind his usual smirk. "Sonnar? What kind of curse is that?"
Mireilla exhaled through her nose, half amused, half irritated by the early hour glaring up at her from the parchment. "Sonnar's an old tale. Not a god exactly. More like a forest spirit—or… a thing people blamed when the woods went wrong."
"The woods?" Toven asked.
She nodded. "My town borders the Wrenthwoods. Thick and deep. Trees older than memory. We used to say Sonnar lived under the roots. He didn't show up unless someone broke something they shouldn't have—cut trees wrong, spilled blood where none should fall, that kind of thing."
Lucavion raised a brow. "And the teeth?"
