When I woke the next morning, the “rattle” in my lungs had been replaced by a clean, sharp coldness that felt like the mountain air without the sting of ice. Sunlight — real, golden sunlight — filtered through the gnarled roots of the ceiling. I sat up, expecting the usual protest of my joints, and the heavy ache of the silver-poisoned hitch in my step. But there was nothing. I felt light. Human.
“Ah, you’ve returned to the land of the living,” Fenn chirped. He was already busy, his hooves clattering on the floor as he moved between the hearth and the table. “Bathe,” he instructed, gesturing towards the alcove. “There is hot water waiting behind the curtain. Sloane has already been out to see the morning mist.”
He handed a bundle of clothes to me — thick wool and rugged leather, similar
