Her gaze studies my face.
“You don’t regret staying here.”
“No.”
The bond warms faintly.
“Not even a little?”
I consider the question carefully.
“I occasionally miss setting things on fire.”
Her eyebrow lifts.
“Why am I not surprised.”
“But I have discovered other forms of entertainment.”
“Oh?”
I gesture toward the line of laundry.
“Watching you attempt to teach me domestic tasks is surprisingly engaging.”
“That’s because you deliberately do them wrong.”
“That accusation lacks evidence.”
She folds her arms.
“You burned the bread this morning.”
“The stove was aggressive.”
“The stove is made of stone.”
“Stone can be hostile.”
Her shoulders shake with quiet laughter. We stand there together, watching the morning sunlight spread across the lake.
Then Elowen reaches for my hand.
“I planted the new herbs yesterday,” she says.
“The ones from the northern valley?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“They’re already taking root.”
The quiet pride in her voice spreads through the bond like a gentle pulse. Her healing work never stopped. Even after we left Briarthorn. Even after the fire. She simply carried it somewhere new.
Villagers from nearby towns visit occasionally now, bringing injuries and illnesses that require the careful hands of a healer who understands both herbs and hellish magic.
They do not fear her. Because the fire she commands now is steady, controlled, and chosen.
