Elara's enthusiasm was a roaring hearth against the deepening chill of my departure. Where I saw exile and uncertainty, she saw a homecoming and the thrilling induction of a new recruit. From the moment my trunks were sealed, she appointed herself my unofficial and immensely spirited guide to the North.
Her "briefings" were not held in quiet rooms but conducted as we walked the grounds, sorted through gear, or shared sparse meals in my now-echoing quarters. They were less lectures and more vibrant, anecdotal floods of information, delivered with the boundless energy of someone who loved her home with fierce, uncomplicated pride.
"First," she announced, handing me a pair of fur-lined leather gloves Damien had provided, "you must forget Southern time. The sun is a shy guest in the North. In deep winter, you'll see it for a few pale hours. In high summer, it barely sleeps. Your body will rebel. You'll want to feast at dawn and sleep at noon. Fight it. Routine is your anchor."
