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The cold is not alive, Dawsyn mumbles, finishing her sentence.

It comes to life when you let it, child… Do not let it.

Dawsyn wakes.

The feel of ice in her chest is gone. Her blood feels warm, as it should. Her hair no longer drips in rivulets down her spine. She is covered, not in a soaked dress and cloak, but in thick blankets, one on top of the other. The smell of burning pine is all around, the smell of home.

“Are you truly awake this time?”

Dawsyn turns her head and finds Baltisse in a wooden chair by her cot. It seems Dawsyn has been returned to her bed in Salem’s inn, and the presence of the mage explains why Dawsyn’s side now feels whole and uninjured.

Baltisse looks weary, as though days have passed since she last slept. The small window shows that night has fallen.

“How long did I sleep?”

“A few handfuls of hours. No more than expected for a woman who should be dead in more ways than one,” Baltisse says, her eyes narrowed as they survey Dawsyn’s body with shrewd thoroughness.

“Where is Ryon?”

“He has watched over you all day. I relieved him. I do not smell any infection, but tell me, do you feel well?”

Dawsyn frowns. “You cansmellinfection?”

“I can smell and see all manner of things, sweet. Most of it would curdle your stomach. Are you well or not?”

“I feel normal,” she says, flexing her toes, her fingers. “Better than normal.”

“Good,” the mage snaps, rising to stand.

She makes to sweep from the room, but Dawsyn speaks before she can.

“Baltisse?” she calls.

“What?”

“Thank you,” Dawsyn tells her. “I am indebted to you.”

“You hate that, don’t you, Dawsyn Sabar?”

Dawsyn nods. “But I am thankful all the same.”

“I am sure you can repay me one day,” she says, turning again to leave.

“Why did you do it?”

The mage halts. “Heal you?” she asks, disbelief on her tongue. “You would have died.”

Dawsyn nods. “I would have. But I am no one to you.”

Baltisse’s eyes avert, and Dawsyn watches carefully as the mage, so bold and blistering in her speech, fumbles for an answer. “You’ve suffered your fill already.”

Dawsyn considers that. “I’ve suffered many people’s fill.”

The mage does not deny her, nodding in admission.

“How lucky the rest of Terrsaw is that they were spared the assault of Glacians fifty years ago,” Dawsyn sighs.

Baltisse meets her eye and holds it, the colors within now still. There is no derision left in her voice when she says, “Luck had nothing to do with it. Though it seems you’ve figured that out for yourself already.”