The moon hung low that night, pale and distant, veiled behind thin clouds that carried the smell of rain and smoke. Ravenclaw's camp lay restless beneath it. Fires burned low, whispers flickered through the tents, and every shadow seemed to move.
Evelyn couldn't sleep. She stood outside her tent, hands clasped behind her back, her gaze fixed on the horizon where darkness gathered thicker than the night itself. For days, the scouts had returned with uneasy reports — distant howls, tracks too deep for wolves, and villages that fell silent without a cry. It felt like the calm before a storm that already knew their names.
George approached quietly. His cloak was soaked from the mist, his eyes heavy with something unspoken. "The scouts came back," he said. "It's him. Fji."
Evelyn didn't flinch, though her stomach tightened. "How close?"
