The afternoon light was a bruised purple, the kind of heavy, low-slung glow that only existed in the North during the Long Dark. I settled onto the velvet couch, the cushions swallowing us both as Rael scrambled into the crook of my arm.
Between us sat a silver tray piled high with the kitchen's best offerings: honey cakes glistening with amber glaze, candied winter berries that shattered like glass between the teeth, and flaky pastries stuffed with spiced cream.
I opened the heavy, leather-bound volume in my lap. It was an ancient thing, its pages smelling of dry earth and spent centuries. Rael's eyes went wide, his small hand reaching out to trace the gilded illumination of a dragon on the title page.
"The Beginning," I whispered, my voice dropping into a storyteller's rhythm.
