Ester had been sitting beside the bed for so long that the chair seemed to have become part of her own body. The room was closed off, warmed by three braziers spread throughout the corners and by a fireplace that had been fed without rest, yet the air remained far too cold. Not a natural cold. Not the kind born from wind, winter, or damp stone. It was a cold that came from Damon, lying motionless on the mattress, as if his body had become a silent source of winter.
He was still in a coma.
Nothing had truly changed over the last six days.
Or perhaps everything had changed, only in the wrong direction.
