Elowen POV
The first snow in the mountains doesn’t fall gently.
It arrives sideways.
Sharp wind. Ice that bites your cheeks raw. The kind of cold that feels personal.
I’ve learned to breathe through it.
You don’t fight mountain air.
You adjust to it.
The healer wing smells different here in winter. Less green. More smoke and stone. Mountain packs use heated slate tables instead of open flame, which changes how certain brews steep. The cold forces patience into the process.
Patience is something I understand.
Today was quieter than the thorn incident week.
No blood.
No panic.
Just a steady rhythm of grinding, sorting, learning.
And missing.
I received his letter at dusk.
Not through formal channels.
Through the supply runner who smirked and said, “From home.”
I took it care
