Thomas Andrew sat awake the night of the pyre, unable to remove himself from the windowsill that had overlooked the spot the bonfire had once been held, now a smoldering heap of charcoal and ash. Water in his eyes, whether from the irritation of the smoke or the pain of a parent outliving their child, his heart ached yet again. It was the same black void of the night that swelled over the land like all those years ago, first his mother on the eve of the Nordling War decades past, then his beloved wife Leopoldine some five years ago, and now finally one of his youngest, Daphne, a daughter and a laughter that would no longer bring mirth to his halls, gone now too.
Smiles were now all gone from the man, lost with the passing of that winter moon. All he could bring himself to offer now was the tortured expression of a cursed, haunted beast. That was all that Thomas Andrew could now offer the smallest of his children, Laurentina, a girl so young she never even knew of the mother that had born her. That winter would be a harsh one, he had thought, watching as the hours passed and the hoarfrost grew upon his window and the drums of war stirred in his ear.