Nova Peak Powinch

The huntress always came to Elowen’s den with a mouth full. If not with petals of chamomile, then sprigs of purple lavender and echinacea, or small bones for Kaldros to chew.

Today she brings nothing, only the heavy tread of tired paws. Ayovi stands in front of the den and peers into the warm dark.

“Elowen? It’s me. May I speak with you? It’s important.”