Fairspell Meadow Whiplash

The crone’s silence was not a sign of disappointment. She was the type of woman who held her cards close to the chest. There was no need to share the depth of her plans. Only what was necessary to get the job done, he’d found. While frustrating, Stormchaser had come to accept it was merely her way and he had adopted a sense of understanding for it.

When she mentioned a trip to the coast, the young wolf’s ears pointed tall on his head.

The coast? he inquired in a rough voice. You know I’m not much of a swimmer.

Stormchaser’s mien reflected the boy’s hesitance. Even if the waters held this artifact of great power, how were they to obtain it? The sea was something he’d only heard of, never seen. What he understood of it suggested this would be no quick trip.