Corsair Sedrid, ten years old and with a wad of bandages pressed against the left side of his neck, lay in bed. Sheets swathed his tiny body, drawn up to his collarbone, and numerous pillows had been eased behind his back to let him sit up. Books and unused parchment lay strewn across the floor and his bed, a finished bowl of his mother’s food on his lap between his legs. Quickpaw, as small and frail as Corsair was, sat curled at his ankles. Sunlight beamed through the window and kept the loyal beast’s white coat warm, turning parts of it golden.
A knock at the door.
“Corsair?” a voice said, the comfort it brought harbouring a familiar warmth.
Corsair whimpered, fighting to turn his head left to face the door.
“Mummy?”
Corsair’s mummy eased the door open and peered inside, a smile on
