Dawn had yet to break, but a faint warmth already filled the domed house.
The wooden wall panels still held a little heat from last night's fire, and traces of ash and charcoal lingered in the air.
Ian slowly opened his eyes beneath the thick woolen quilt.
For a moment after waking, he even forgot where he was. He had moved here six months ago, yet he still wasn't quite used to it.
The bed was too soft, the bedding too warm, and the ceiling overhead too smooth and neat.
He turned his head out of habit and saw a little cloth doll sitting in the corner by his bed. Its ears curled slightly, and one eye was crooked. Mia had made it.
Soft footsteps sounded outside, perhaps patrol knights passing the muddy alley entrance, or early-rising craftsmen moving their tools.
Ian lay quietly, staring at the little doll for a long time, suddenly feeling that none of this was real.
He had once been a carpenter in White Stone Village. Every day, he worked with wood, drank the porridge his wife cooked in the morning, and fell asleep at night holding his daughter to the crackle of burning firewood.
Their life had not been prosperous, but it had been warm and whole.
Until the winter three years ago, when the Snow Oath slashed through his life like a dagger, carving him piece by piece into a mangled, bloody outline.
That day, he had gone into the mountain woods early, merely to cut a few decent fir branches.
When he returned, all he saw was black smoke, collapsed rooftops, and the shattered well.
He knelt in the doorway, where the blood had not yet dried, and picked up his wife's apron.
He did not cry. There was no time.
Mia