Owlbone is old — older than most trails, older than many grudges. He speaks little, letting the great owl skull at his side watch and listen in his stead.
Through smoke, sap, and whispered rites, he reads the forest’s moods and the omens of war yet to come. The skull remembers what others forget, and Owlbone remembers what must not be spoken.
In DeepWood, no raid begins without his blessing — or his warning.
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