Young Milo lay trembling against the cold flagstones, his small chest heaving with ragged, terrified sobs.
The boy’s oversized sheepskin coat was ruined, its wool charred by soot and sliced open along the ribs, revealing a blood-soaked homespun shirt beneath. Dark crimson dripped from a jagged cut across his forehead, running into his tearful eyes as he clutched Elara’s polished leather boot with shaking, dirt-caked fingers. Behind him, the hidden hearth passage yawned like a black throat, puffing hot smoke and the sharp reek of burning sulfur down into the cellar.
Elara dropped to both knees without a second of hesitation.
Her dark hair remained coiled in its neat knot, though a few soft wisps escaped around her temples as she leaned over the boy. Her fitted black wool tunic pulled tig
