A violet dusk settled over the snow-laden pines as the church bells struck the sixth hour.
Inside the quiet sanctuary of her cottage bedchamber, Elara stood before a tall pine washstand, scrubbing the lingering stains of medicinal soot and mint syrup from her forearms with coarse soap. She wore a simple, unadorned under-shift of bleached linen that fell straight to her ankles, tied loosely at the hollow of her throat with a pale cord. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in damp, wavy coils, catching the amber flicker of three beeswax candles burning upon the mantle.
The heavy oak door squeaked open, admitting Milo alongside two burly royal sentries who carried a massive, polished cedar trunk banded in gilded iron.
Milo wore his patched woolen tunic, brushed clean of hearth ash for
