Griffin's POV
The packhouse had finally gone quiet. For the first time all day, no one was screaming, bickering, or running for their life from a suspiciously blinking object that might explode but probably just released glitter. Griffin leaned back in his leather armchair, sipping from a warm mug of chamomile tea because Lila had cut him off from coffee after the third council meeting this week.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth. The only other sound was the rhythmic ticking of the old wall clock and the soft creak of the stairs as Lila descended, wrapped in a thick robe, her silver-streaked hair piled into a loose bun.
"You're up late," she said, padding barefoot into the room.
Griffin nodded, setting his mug down. "Couldn't sleep."
She raised a brow and plopped down onto the couch across from him, tucking her legs under herself with the same grace she'd had twenty years ago. "Thinking about the witch?"
He let out a slow exhale. "That. And Forrest."
