Dawn arrived without asking permission, cold and pale over Arven's rooftops. Damon woke before Ester knocked on the door, which, by itself, was a small triumph. He did not get up immediately. He spent several seconds staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the mansion waking: footsteps in the corridor, a door being carefully closed, the low voices of servants, the metal of armor being adjusted somewhere distant. The house felt alive, but not calm. It was like a wounded animal that had finally learned to keep its eyes open.
The elemental root pulsed slowly in his chest. The cold was still there, present in every breath, but it no longer pushed against his skin as before. Damon raised one hand and watched bluish lines appear beneath his fingers, faint, almost faded. He was better. Not normal, but better. The word normal seemed increasingly useless to describe anything in his life.
Two knocks came at the door.
"Come in," he said.
