Carlithra

I am Carlithra Whitefang of Chrace, daughter of the Whitefang line and general beneath the Phoenix Throne. For near two centuries I have known little beyond war. I have crossed blackened shores beneath volleys of druchii bolts, hunted beast-things through snow-choked forests, and watched too many pyres burn beneath Ulthuan’s stars. Peace was ever a fleeting thing to my people. And yet... for the first time in many long years, Ulthuan breathes quietly. No war horns sound across the inner kingdoms. The watchtowers burn with calm flame instead of warning beacon-fire. Even the forests of Chrace seem less burdened, their winds gentler, their beasts less restless. Many of my kin rejoice in such peace. I find myself uncertain how to wear it. So I hunt. It is an old comfort among the White Lions — to walk alone beneath the ancient boughs with only axe, instinct, and silence for company. No courtiers. No banners. No generals seeking counsel. Only the hush of snowmoss beneath my boots and the distant calls of the great cats through the pines. Days passed beneath the green canopy. I tracked elk through the high valleys, slept beneath the roots of elder trees, and let the wildness of Chrace strip the weight of command from my shoulders piece by piece. In those moments I almost felt young again. Not General Whitefang. Merely Carlithra. Then the wind shifted. Smoke. Faint. Foreign. Not the clean scent of a ranger’s fire nor the resin-burn of Chracian camps. This carried unfamiliar spice and ash upon it — the scent of an outsider. My hand fell immediately to the haft of my axe. Few arrive in Chrace by accident. I lowered myself silently into the undergrowth, every lesson of the hunt returning in an instant. No snapped twig. No rattled armor. Only the patient advance of a lioness through shadow as I began to stalk toward the distant firelight hidden among the trees.