Pressed against Ignatious's side, Heila felt the warmth that flowed from him the moment his prayer had begun, a warmth that started as a gentle comfort, like sitting before a cozy hearth on a cold winter evening, but had grown steadily stronger as the golden flames spread throughout the chamber.
It wasn't the harsh, aggressive heat of a forge or a bonfire. It was something softer, more welcoming, the kind of warmth that invited you to draw close and stay awhile, that promised safety and shelter from all the terrors that lurked beyond the circle of firelight. It was the warmth of home, of sanctuary, of a place where the darkness could not reach, and the cold could not touch you.
"Thank you," she whispered softly, almost reflexively, as she snuggled up against his warmth, being careful not to disrupt his work.
