(Winter’s POV)
The walk was supposed to be simple.
The doctor had insisted on it—light movement to keep her body from stiffening, to help her regain strength after days of forced healing and sedation. Winter had agreed, not because she needed permission, but because she understood the logic. Recovery required more than just time in a bed.
So she walked.
Slowly at first, her steps measured as she moved along the corridor of the infirmary, one hand occasionally brushing the wall for balance. The soreness in her side lingered, but it was manageable. The poison was gone, her strength returning little by little with each passing hour.
Frost remained steady beneath her awareness, no longer distant, no longer suppressed.
You’re pushing too soon, Frost said, her tone low but not disapproving
