SKYE'S POV
The ice did not vanish all at once. It retreated in slow, dripping stages, leaving behind the dark, rich scent of wet earth, pine needles, and the sharp, clean fragrance of wild mountain sage.
By the third month of the new year, the white shroud of Nighthaven had shrunk to thin, silver veins clinging to the northern shadows of the cliffs. Down in the valley, the high meadows had erupted into a sea of pale yellow buttercups and wild lavender, their stems pushing through the soft mud where the heavy snow-drifts had lived only weeks before.
I stood in the center of the newly cleared southern terrace, my hands buried in a wooden trough of dark, damp soil.
I wasn't wearing the iron crown today. It sat on a simple wooden shelf in our private chambers, catching the morning light li
