C19 Not a summons. A warning.

The air was about to burst. Thorn's growl thundered, wolves leaned forward on their claws, and my shadows coiled like snakes, ready to bite.

Then there was a horn.

From the southern watchtower came a low, mournful carrying. All heads jerked in the direction of the noise. The room went cold.

Once more, the horn sounded.

Not a warning. Calls