The winds of the world shifted.
It was not with a roar or a blaze, but a hush the kind of hush that follows a long-held breath.
The sky above the Summerlands shimmered with gold-threaded clouds, while heat kissed the blossoms blooming late in the Winterwoods. Rivers once frozen in silence began to sing.
Autumn's auburn leaves rustled gently, no longer weighed down by grief. And far in the east, Spring's first green unfurled like a sigh.
The balance was returning.
And in the heart of it all, within the sun-dappled walls of a quiet chamber in the Summer Palace, Lady Violet cradled a newborn boy against her chest.
Her wind-touched long curly brown hair fell softly about her shoulders, glowing as if kissed by all four seasons at once, the frost of her trials, the bloom of new beginnings, the golden fire of her lineage, and the winds that had always carried her forward.
