Miraxxa remembers. The fires flickering around the camp, little pools of light in the unfamiliar cold of the mountain winter, her mother feeding her the last remains of the familiar food of the other place, the place mother thinks of as “home”, beyond the big dark door. She remembers the long march tied to her mother’s back, looking over her shoulder at the snow and the trees. She remembers being left, with the other children, when their parents went away, promises to return. Promises broken. She smiles across the fire at Luccius, and offers him some burnt fish. He looks at her seriously.