The gray mist of the Alberta dawn was no longer a symbol of terrifying siege, but a cold, solemn curtain rising on the first day of our absolute rule. Inside the sprawling stone sanctuary, the air was warm, smelling of dried lavender, melting candle wax, and the comforting, thick sweetness of my maternal milk.
I sat at the edge of the velvet-draped canopy bed, newly bathed, my burning skin now wrapped in fresh, incredibly soft cotton fabrics that didn't irritate my raw, sensitive flesh.
I was tired—so painfully tired—but as I leaned into Ivy's firm, familiar embrace while she carefully dried my damp hair, a deep sense of grounding washed over me. In this world of betrayal and savage wars, my children could only be trusted in her hands and those of a few selected, fiercely loyal friends.
The room was a beautiful, chaotic haven of domestic survival.
