The fire in the hearth had burned down to a pile of softly glowing embers. The small cabin in Mourn-Hold was finally quiet. The howling wind outside sounded like a distant memory rather than a threat, muffled by the thick timber walls and the heavy wooden shutters.
Isole Sylvaris lay perfectly still beneath the thick woolen quilt.
The blood root paste plastered over her ribs radiated a deep, penetrating heat. It worked in tandem with the crude magical array carved into the headboard of the Hearth Bed. The deep ache in her bones was already beginning to recede. But it was not the herbal medicine that kept her awake. It was the rhythmic, steady breathing of the boy lying mere inches away from her right shoulder.
