Blackfeather Woods nothing but the burnt edge of an unfinished history

She dressed the wound without the normal dedication that she normally reserved for her medical treatment. Atli had resigned his fate into her hands, taking the punishment without even a word of discontent. But he was hers. She took care of her things — minus three — and she did not want him slipping away again.

The witch gathered her things, the remainders of his dressing scattering the floor. Those that were still whole enough to be used once more were placed in the herbstore, with the rest left on the infirmary's floor. She swept them towards the entrance, shaking her body to remove the last scraps of the herbs and cobwebs from her body.

All the while, Potema listened to Atli's weary enumeration of his faults. Once her tidying had finished, she laid near him, her head resting on his shoulder.

Perhaps you can give him your words of wisdom, But her voice still remained cold, bitter — dried then frozen. There was a sarcasm — irony, really — laced within her voice. Nothing of Atli's advice would chance the course of the pack or their son. But if they were to survive this, her son, who had taken a largely authoritarian role in the litter, would need to learn. She hoped that he would.

She wanted to say she didn't know. But she had to keep some semblance of control. She was silence, deliberating for a moment, before she spoke. Officially you will be a prisoner of Blackfeather Woods. You left the Woods without leave — this is your physical punishment. You will work for me until I say you have regained your value — and you regain a position here. No doubt Astrid or Vaati would object, but at this rate Potema had no regard for her fellow Dark Council members. This was her decision — he was hers.