A few weeks had passed since Damon woke up, and the mansion had finally stopped functioning like an emergency ward. There were still guards in the hallways, servants walking far too quietly, and piles of documents in Morgana's office, but the atmosphere was no longer that of a wake awaiting confirmation. Damon could already walk on his own, though Ester still watched him as if he were a bomb about to make a stupid decision. His physical recovery was advancing fast—too fast, even—but that didn't mean everything was fine.
That morning, he was alone in the mansion's garden, sitting cross-legged on the ground atop a thin layer of ice that had formed without his wanting it to. The grass around him was white, covered in tiny crystals, and some nearby flowers had withered at the edges because of the temperature. Damon looked at it with silent irritation, as it was already the third time that week he had tried to cultivate outdoors specifically to avoid freezing furniture, walls, or people.
