Verona was not in the North. She was not in a bed of furs, and she was not cold.
She was standing in a vast, echoing cathedral of white silk and molten golden light, the interior of the Stone, the sanctum of the Weaver's soul. There was no wind here, only a profound, harmonic hum that vibrated through her marrow like the purr of a contented star. The chaos of the Southern gallery, the oily rot of Malakor's presence, and the jagged, terrifying scream of the Void were all gone.
Before her stood a woman who looked exactly like her, yet was as ancient as the constellations.
Iora.
The aide stood with her hands folded over her chest, her silhouette glowing with a soft, iridescent pulse that made the air around her shimmer. She looked at Verona not with the eyes of a goddess, but with the weary, satisfied pride of a mother who had watched her child survive a hurricane.
