Chapter 18 The Wyrm-flame Feast

• Roderick ate his first proper meal in a week sitting up in bed, propped against a pile of threadbare cushions with a wooden tray balanced on his lap. His hands were still bandaged, his movements slow and careful, but the color had returned to his face and his eyes were clear.
• I had made him a simple broth first, light and golden, made from bones and herbs and a single wild onion. He drank it slowly, his eyes closing with every swallow.
• "Tastes like being alive," he said quietly.