The first thing that touched my senses was the smell. It wasn’t the sterile, biting scent of high altitude snow or the metallic tang of blood. It was the heavy, though comforting, aroma of dried lavender, wet earth, and something sweet — like honey left too close to a fire.
Then came the weight. My body felt as if it had been pulled apart then put back together by an apprentice who had left several vital parts on the floor. My neck throbbed with a hot pulse, and my ribs felt like they were made of fractured glass.
I tried to open my eyes, but the light was wrong. It wasn’t the harsh white of the mountain peak or the violet glow of the quartz. It was a dim, flickering amber.
“Careful now,” a voice chirped. It was a strange, melodic sound, like a flute played through a mouthful of pebb
