The reeds rustle softly as you approach, a stranger’s scent heavy with blood on the air. A low, rasping voice, like wind through dry thorns, speaks from the shadows near the water’s edge.
‘The river brought you to my paws, just as the willow bends to the wind. Your path is not yet finished. I have seen the shadow that hunts you... and the light beyond the forbidden ridge. Stay. The fire is lit. We shall see if your wounds run deeper than your claws.’