Only Zayshara remains now. Hiding, hoping, weeping.
Azin believes that my little Elzhar could not have survived the cold or the creatures that roam these wretched hills. He said it was a mercy that our little one wandered off. That Elzhar would curl up in a drift of this killing snow and sleep peacefully until the cold drew out his last breath.
But Azin is wrong. A mother's heart, it knows.
This is for you, my little one. Little gifts of magic, Do you remember, back home in Mistral, this one would conjure colors and swirls to make you giggle? Your soft paws pouncing on a toy that disappeared then re-appeared? The nonsense rhymes and stories this one would whisper to you before you slept?
You will find me through these memories. My heart knows this.
