SKYE'S POV
The winter’s first snow was a quiet thing. It didn't howl through the mountain passes or rattle the high stained-glass windows of the castle; it simply drifted down in fat, lazy flakes, dusting the jagged edges of the black basalt peaks until the valley looked like a charcoal drawing washed in milk.
I stood by the heavy oak table in the center of the royal chambers, watching a small, pale orange flame dance atop a single beeswax candle.
With the temple dry and the Council’s vaults opened, the servants had offered to bring up the expensive scent-oils and the massive silver candelabras that had once decorated Garrow’s private study. I had sent them back. The simple beeswax candle smelled of honey and summer fields, a scent that didn't try to choke the air of the room. It remind
