Almost without thinking, I sent a pulse to an old friend I hadn't spoken to in many moons.
"You trained at the healer-coven with Raven Ashthorne, right? Do you remember her?"
The reply came fast, the crystal warming with urgency: "Raven Ashthorne is still ALIVE? She didn't die?"
I blinked at the glowing surface. "She's alive. Perfectly fine, as far as I can tell."
The crystal pulsed and flickered for three full minutes before her response appeared.
"Why are you asking about her?"
Her tone had shifted—serious now. I matched it.
"She's at my den. Planning to spend Midwinter Turning Night with my pack."
What followed was an avalanche. Over a dozen voice-imbued messages, each one filled to bursting with words.
My stomach dropped. Hazel Frostvale was known for being scattered, never using ten words when two would do. Something was very wrong.
Her voice poured through the crystal, urgent and unrelenting.
"Get her out of there. She carries a blood-rot curse. A severe one."
"With what she has, a simple wound-fever could kill her. She's been carrying it for three years—I was there when she got diagnosed at our healer-coven."
"How could you let her into your den? Have you lost your senses?"
"..."