The snow began to melt in hesitant trickles, but the cold still bit through the mountain air like a blade. Each morning, after Leroy left for his "hunts," Lorraine wrapped herself in the thick fur cloak he had bought her and made her way down the narrow, frost-glazed path to the village.
At first, they hadn't trusted her. She was too clean, too well-fed, her voice carrying the sharp cadence of a noblewoman. But day after day, she came. She helped the women draw water from the frozen well, mended clothes beside them, laughed at their jokes, and listened, truly listened, to their stories. More than what she gave, they go warmed up to her because she listened to them.
Slowly, suspicion thawed into quiet acceptance.
She began to speak like them, her tongue adopting the rounded vowels of the Kaltharion dialect, colored faintly by the melodic lilt of Vaelorian speech. The villagers noticed, amused, when she stumbled over certain words, but their smiles were genuine now.
