- Aubrelle POV -
Warm evening air drifted through the slightly opened balcony doors of the Rosenthal border estate, carrying the scent of blooming spirit-flowers and distant incense from the summoning gardens. Aubrelle could not see any of it—her world was darkness behind a silk-white bandage—but Pipin perched on the vanity table, pale feathers ruffling softly, saw everything for her.
Three months.
Three months since the Sylvanel–Thal'Zar war erupted like a forest fire across the world.
Aubrelle ran her slender fingers through her hair, smoothing the golden strands while Pipin relayed the reflection in the mirror: the fall of her curls, the neatness of her braid, the faint tension in her own shoulders. Every detail arrived in flashes, impressions, shapes edged in red glow—his vision, not hers.
War had changed everything.
