The voice continued.

Soft. Tuned. Familiar—and otherwise.

"Leya…"

A breath—neither cold nor warm. Did not command, did not scold. Was. Like a stretched bowstring pulled taut behind her at her back.

She blinked, sight blurring through fever and weariness, but her backbone firmed—beneath, a little.

Her fingers clenched into a blanket on her lap, fine cloth now armor, her foothold in the world.

> Who was it?

They didn't knock the second time.

Didn't ...