Stavanger Bay blackwood farm

Atoll's ears flickered in approval at Rowan's words, and her eyes dropped once more to gaze appreciatively at the pale wolf's belly. Good pups, witch pups, said a voice that she hardly recognized anymore. The sensible voice had been chief among her advisors, lately, and she'd almost forgotten how different the poisonous voice tended to sound. You're still far from achieving anything like that. If Skellige grants you your mate, you'll still have to wait until your heat, and then months longer to have the fruit of any coupling - if there's fruit at all. Atoll or not, you don't have the dominance to back up the title - and weak wolves always bear small broods.

And, even if all goes in your favor - against nature - they will still carry your poor genes. Small boys, pointy-faced girls - and not a witch bone in their body. What a pity.

The voice continued to torment her, tease her. Atoll knew that if Rowan would not bless the bay with her brood, Atoll would have to do it for her.

"Silver Creek, you said?" she asked with polite and open interest, bringing the witch back to the place she'd mentioned earlier. "I've never heard of it - which way is that?"

She only knew of one pack other than her own and Donnelaith's - and she'd passed by it months ago, on while she wound her way toward the coast.