Sienna-Rose woke slowly, the world filtering back in piece by piece. The dull ache in her body reminded her of the purification ritual—of the torrent of magic that had drained her near to collapse. But the ache was not sharp, just a heavy sort of exhaustion that weighed gently on her limbs, like a thick wool blanket on a cold morning.
Light spilled softly through the sheer curtains, casting gentle golden shapes across the ceiling. Somewhere outside, she could hear birds chirping, and the rustling of leaves teased by a breeze. But none of it drew her attention more than the warm, small hand clasped tightly around hers.
She turned her head slowly, blinking through the fuzz of sleep, and there he was—her son. Ivan. Slumped over the side of her bed, one knee still on the floor, the other curled beneath him in an awkward angle, his cheek resting beside her elbow. His small frame rose and fell with each steady breath, his fingers still gripping her hand like a lifeline.
