-Ronan Hale:
The scent of fresh bread and roasted meat mingles with the faint, ever-present bite of ash that lingers in the air. It's a smell I've grown used to—food and fire, warmth and ruin.
The wooden walls of our home creak against the wind outside, the structure old but sturdy, built to withstand far worse than a passing storm.
The Hale family home has stood for over a century, passed down through generations of hunters.
It isn't grand, not by any means. The wooden beams are weathered and scarred with age, and the stone fireplace in the corner is blackened from decades of roaring flames.
Heavy pelts drape over the chairs and floor, remnants of past hunts—wolves, bears, anything we could kill for warmth.
Weapons line the walls: crossbows, silver-tipped arrows, daggers, and long, wickedly sharp stakes carved by my grandfather's hand.
In the daylight, it looks like a home, albeit a hardened one, built for war rather than comfort.
