The storm seemed to have passed, but its echoes lingered in the royal court.
When it appeared weeks ago, the mysterious illness had spread like wildfire through the outer villages. It began with weakness, then trembling, then an agony that stripped the wolf from the body, turning the wolf mindless and hungry until only a broken husk remained. And then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone. No trail, no cure, no explanation. The dead remained, and the survivors lived in fear of its return.
King Roan paced across his council chamber, boots striking the polished stone with a rhythm that betrayed his unease. Scrolls and ledgers lay open on the long oak table, each a testament to frantic reports from across the kingdom: healers confused, shamans baffled, apothecaries impotent. The parchments smelled faintly of ink and sweat, desperation pressed into words.
Roan raked a hand through his dark hair and let out a growl. "It makes no sense. Illness does not simply vanish into smoke."
