The heat from the mana-heater was a small, flickering comfort against the encroaching frost of the cave. Isole leaned her head against the rough stone wall, her eyes sliding shut as the exhaustion finally claimed her. The rhythmic sound of Vane's whetstone against his spear followed her into the dark. It was a steady, grounding noise that slowly morphed into something else. It became the sound of silver needles clicking against porcelain.
The smell of wet limestone vanished. It was replaced by the overwhelming, cloying scent of white lilies and ancient cedar.
Isole was standing in the White Pavilion of the Silver Wood. The sunlight here was filtered through the canopy of world-trees, falling in perfect, pale diamonds across the marble floor. It was too bright. It was too clean. She felt a familiar, crushing weight in her chest, but it wasn't the weight of her mana. It was the weight of expectations.
"Hold your chin higher, Isole," a voice said.
