Awareness returned to Vane not as a sudden jolt, but as a slow, agonizing thaw.
The biting, absolute cold of the mountain was gone. It was replaced by a heavy, humid heat that pressed down on his skin like a thick blanket. The sharp, jagged spikes of pain in his fractured arm and shattered ribs had dulled into a deep, pulsing ache. He smelled crushed pine needles, woodsmoke, and the pungent, earthy stench of boiled bitterroot.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was made of rough, dark wooden beams. The flickering orange glow of a hearth fire danced across the timber. He wasn't in the immaculate, sterile medical wing of Zenith Academy. He was inside a small, drafty cabin. The howling wind of Mourn-Hold rattled the wooden shutters, but the cold couldn't pierce the heavy walls.
