Art not by me.   Weak light seeped through the canvas, setting the tent aglow. Godan, morning already. Saoirse was not used to rising with the sun—the maids in Castle Lichestadt would close her shutters at night, locking out the bitter northern air, opening them only when she was awake and bathing. On the road, the forest streams were her bath, the flowering meadows her parlour. She donned her cloak  and shuffled into a world of blue and silvery grey, light as morning but brimming with