Otsanna was the kind of person who savored solitude. As the pack's sorceress, her days were often filled with the needs of others, so a day to herself was a rare and precious gift.
She had planned this one meticulously.
The vast, open clearing of her land was her sanctuary, and today, she was seated on a simple stool in its center, lost in the rhythmic, meditative task of grinding herbs. The scent of crushed leaves and wild roots filled the air, a fragrance she found more soothing than any perfume.
A soft, happy tune hummed from her lips, a melody of pure contentment. This was her hobby, her escape—the art of herbalism. She was preparing a healing salve, a process that demanded her full attention but her peace shattered in an instant.
There was a subtle shift in the air whispering a presence was enough to tense her shoulders. The humming stopped.
