Page 31

I’m seeing it clear as day, impossibly here in this vision. There is the rough-hewn table where we shared many a meal, laughing together as we ate the fragrant stews and breads she would prepare. Over there is the worn velvet armchair she would sit by the crackling fire, needles clicking as she knitted while I read aloud to her in the evening from one of her leather-bound books of poetry or folk tales.

And there, in the little kitchen nook, stands Thorn herself, serenely grinding something with mortar and pestle. Her sleeves are rolled up, exposing slender but strong forearms that flex gently as she works. Her hair is gathered back in a loose braid, little tendrils escaping to frame her face. A face of delicate beauty is marked by a faint crease in her brow as she concentrates.

Gods, even focused on some mundane chore, she is radiant.

My fingers twitch with the phantom urge to reach across the void separating us, to come up behind her and wrap my arms around that petite but sturdy frame, nuzzling into the tender warmth of her neck.

But I remain an invisible observer to the scene, unable to interact. Still, seeing her again, being enveloped in the beloved surroundings of the cottage, is its own form of nourishment. I drink in every minute detail greedily—the motes of dust dancing in a sunbeam falling across the worn floorboards and the rich mingling aromas of crackling woodsmoke and dried herbs.

After an age of drinking in Thorn’s presence, the vision begins to lose definition, fraying at the edges as I’m drawn back from the depths of slumber. I cling desperately to the last glimpses of her raven locks escaping their plait, the firelight playing across her porcelain cheek. I sear every fraction of detail into my mind before the darkness takes me, and her beloved face is lost to me once more.

I awake slowly, momentarily confused by the lavish bedchamber rather than rough-hewn rafters. Ofcourse, I am back home in the castle, yet somehow, I am also joined to Thorn from afar. My heart aches, missing the simplicity and warmth of our time together.

“You’re awake.”

Mother sits near the bed, studying me with her piercing gaze that missed nothing. Without a word, she hands me a linen-wrapped package, the yeasty aroma hinting at its contents even before I unfold the cloth. A small loaf of hearty bread.

“Freshly baked, just as you mentioned,” Mother says. Her eyes glint with unspoken understanding.

Somehow, she deduced the bread’s secret properties from my fevered ramblings after returning, yet she does not pry or judge now, only seeks to soothe her child’s unseen hurts, as she always has. The kindness brings stinging tears I blink back.

“Thank you,” I rasp, overcome with gratitude.

Mother pats my hand. “I cannot claim to fully grasp this… bond you seem to share. It’s rare and one that I know of only a few finding, but I know your heart will ever follow its own course, for good or ill.”

I give a wry half-smile. She knows me too well, this restless spirit of mine that chafes at rules and tradition.Thorn recognized a kindred wildness in me, and she sought not to tame but to set free.

Before I can reply, Father’s gruff voice intrudes as he enters. “You’ve improved, I see. The illness passed?”

“I wasn’t exactly ill, but yes, I’m much improved, thanks to Mother’s efforts,” I reply, revealing only half the truth. While the bread grants clarity, yearning still consumes me.

I take a bite as Father watches pensively.

“You can’t know how relieved I was to have you returned safe, my son,” he rasps at length. “Losing a child… grief from which one never recovers.”

I lower the half-eaten loaf, humbled by his candid words. “I am grateful to be home,” I offer sincerely.

Yet, there is far more to tell of how I survived the deadly blizzard.

Haltingly, I try conveying the essence without betraying the full truth of Thorn’s identity and our bond. Father listens silently until I finished the tale.

“Seems you owe this witch a considerable debt,” he remarks at last.

I start, not expecting such pragmatism. “She desired no repayment, only to see me well,” I explain carefully.

Father nods gruffly. “Still, the decree of honor…” He trails off, gaze turning reflective. “For now, remain close while we determine if this strangeness between you persists. Time may yet calm such unrest. If that doesn’t work, distance only makes the heart grow fonder.”

I tense, wanting to argue I must find answers, but Mother’s restraining hand on my arm keeps me silent. Father is not forbidding me from seeing Thorn again, only counseling patience.

I nod in agreement. I will listen… for now.

After Father takes his leave, I stand gazing sightlessly out the window while shadows claim the snowy grounds below. My emotions war within—hope and fear, logic and longing. Thorn, too, surely wrestles with what passed between us. Of that, I am now certain.

“Draven.” Mother’s soft voice at my shoulder draws me back. “You seem… diminished since your ordeal. When’s the last time you had any blood to drink?”

I frown. Has it really been so long since I fed? I try to recall, but my time with Thorn now seems hazy, half-remembered. Surely her healing tea sustained… I freeze. The tea. With dawning shock, I realize I hadnot craved blood at all in the cottage after drinking it, and I haven’t craved it since I returned. No wonder I am so weakened now.

Mother nods knowingly and moves to the door, quietly giving orders to someone beyond. Before long, a servant enters bearing a silver goblet that he offers with a bow.