The winter was harsh that year.
Snow piled high against the walls of Haven, burying the fields, blocking the roads. The villagers huddled in their homes, burning wood they had gathered during the autumn. The healing house was full—children with fevers, elders with coughs, farmers with frostbitten fingers.
Vesper worked through the nights.
Her white eyes were dim with exhaustion, her hands steady but slow. She had been a healer for less than a year, but she had learned quickly. Elara had taught her the basics—how to set bones, mix poultices, comfort the dying. Now she was teaching herself the rest.
William found her at dawn, slumped over a patient's bed.
"Vesper."
She looked up. Her face was pale, her eyes ringed with dark circles.
"The fever broke," she said. "The child will live."
