Chapter Eighteen
The Ridge Hearth
Willow woke to the sound of laughter.
Her eyes opened before the rest of her body moved.
She lay perfectly still beneath the heavy blankets, listening.
Two male voices drifted through the partially open door.
One deep and amused.
The other dry enough to turn every sentence into an insult.
“If you touch that pan again,” Torin said, “I will consider it an act of war.”
“I am improving the stew.”
“You poured ale into it.”
“It needed character.”
“It now has poor judgment and no future.”
Jaxon laughed.
Not quietly.
The sound rolled through the healing lodge without restraint, shaking something fragile loose inside Willow’s chest.
No one silenced him.
No guard appeared to demand an explanation.
No footsteps crossed the hall because happiness had
