For a time, both Ashlynn and Isabell said nothing, lingering in the comfort of holding and being held by a dear friend while thoughts of loved ones left behind haunted them both.
The fire in the hearth crackled and popped, filling the room atop the tower with dancing shadows and the faint smell of woodsmoke that blended with the pot of soup simmering above the flames. Outside the window, the sky was already growing dark while the mists of the Vale settled over the forest like a blanket drawn up against the chill of the winter air.
If it weren't for the missing sounds of crashing waves and the faint, eternally present scent of salt in the air, the two women from Blackwell could almost forget that they were so far from home. Any minute now, Isabell could almost imagine Lassian bursting into the room, insisting on 'sampling' the evening's fish soup and burning his tongue in the process.
