Excerpt from the short story “The Remedy to Winter’s Curse”
For the hundredth time that day, Arden came to the conclusion that possessing healing abilities were useless if one could not even heal oneself.
His solemn gaze shifted from the last biting words of the letter to his withered fingers, a stark prune-blue in the firelight. Winter’s curse, the artisans called it, because it nearly always started with their most cherished possession: the fingers. Fingers that made their craft, made their very life itself. That could only underline the depths of his misery.
Well…at least Matthias’s letters were flakes of optimism. Arden recalled the eve of his departure when he had requested his fellow scribe to send him letters regarding Lord Hibernus’s position. “Well, everyone knows the baron is petulant,” Matthias had told him after he read the letter that night. He shrugged as if Arden would be back in two days. “He will remember that he needs you, anyway. You’re his best scribe, the only one who possesses magic.”