The healers' wing of Frosthold was a place I had visited many times since my arrival in the North. I had come here after battles, after training accidents, after the long nights when the monster waves had left their mark on the bodies of the warriors I had come to love. But I had never sat vigil here, watching over someone whose life I had pulled back from the brink of death.
Runa's bed was near the window, where the grey northern light could fall across her face. The healers had cleaned the wound on her chest, had applied their salves, and had spoken their prayers, but the scar that remained was livid and red, a permanent reminder of the shadow that had nearly claimed her.
She slept.
I sat in the hard wooden chair beside her bed, my hands folded in my lap, my eyes fixed on her face. Her breathing was shallow but steady, her lips slightly parted, her brow furrowed as if she were still fighting, even in sleep.
