Emilia sat in the pack house library. The table in front of her was covered with heavy, leather-bound books. The room was lit only by , casting a soft glow over the worn pages and filling the air with the scent of old parchment. Across from her, Raymond flipped through a thick volume, his brow knitted as he scanned the contents.

“So,” he started, his finger tracing a line in the book, “if we’re looking at werewolf poisons that might've been used on me, there are a few possibilities. But they’d need to be subtle; something that wouldn’t show obvious symptoms right away.”

Emilia nodded, tucking a strand of hair...