Chapter 8
Maeve's Distrust
Maeve, a staunch coven member, voices her suspicion of Lara. Her protectiveness of Lyra and Havenwood fuels her wariness of the newcomer.
Maeve’s gaze, sharp as a sliver of obsidian, never left Lara. It followed her every movement, a silent, persistent judgment that clung to her like the damp mountain air. Even as Lara stirred the stew bubbling over the hearth in the coven’s communal lodge, Maeve’s eyes, the color of storm clouds, remained fixed on her. The lodge, usually a place of comforting warmth and shared purpose, felt charged with an undercurrent of unease whenever Lara was near.
"You stir that pot like you're trying to summon a storm," Maeve said, her voice low and laced with a skepticism that could curdle milk. She sat at a heavy oak table, meticulously weaving dried herbs into a protective charm, her fingers moving with a practiced, almost surgical precision.
Lara paused, the wooden spoon clattering against the cast-iron pot. A flush crept up her neck. "I'm just trying to make sure it doesn't burn," she replied, her voice tighter than she intended. She avoided Maeve's direct stare, her attention drawn to the intricate patterns of the charm Maeve was creating. It was beautiful, a delicate lattice of rosemary and thyme, meant to ward off ill fortune. A skill Lara admired, a controlled magic she could only dream of wielding.
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