The "earth-cradle," as Brenna's storeroom was now affectionately called, was an unqualified success. Her remedies held their potency, their colours vibrant, their scents undimmed. More than that, entering the space felt like stepping into a prayer. The herbal-infused walls, the faint gleam of copper, the profound, earthy silence—it was a sanctuary. It stood as a physical testament to their new unwritten law: their own collective genius was a valid, powerful ingredient in the song of Aethelburg.
This confidence carried them through the next turn of the season. The deepest cold relented its brutal grip, yielding to a period of stark, bright days and painfully clear nights. The snowpack settled and hardened, its surface glazing to a brittle crust that supported the weight of a fox but sent a man plunging knee-deep without warning. It was a time for careful movement and inward focus.
