Hello I am Tammy and I am happy to be here. I am not a writer but it can never hurt to learn new things. My current book is World without end.

I struggle to say thing with eloquence. This is why I am not a writer. And I could use AI but since the little image of me is already altered, I hate to have my voice be also. So, I try to keep it authentic as I can. And for me the best most eloquent way I could explain the way I saw the story in my head as I was reading was to work with my AI to demonstrate with an image. it is what came to my mind at the moment. But I probably said it wrong. Or shared it in the wrong format because I can feel that it may have been mistaken for a criticism. And from the bottom of my heart, it was not meant to be one. I asked the AI in the prompt to create the image representing the moment hope is restored. I only hoped to share the vision I saw while glancing over the content in the segment shared. It is not meant to be anything other than that. I hope I can be forgiven and that you will continue to share with not only me but others your gift of writing. Also, your image was amazing I loved the glow on the blanket. I wish I would have just said so. I added the glow to this one in kling before I shared the other but had forgotten it in the image generator. And I hate to make a product that gets left in the tool so I am sharing it with you. I would love to see your version animated. Hope to talk to you soon.

Chapter 4 Gaining comfort from her quilt, from the essence of Amma still folded into its familiar weight, Celine noticed another lump in the soft folds. Her hand closed around something small and solid she could not immediately name. She stilled, afraid to hope, and then drew it free. With disbelief, Celine gasped, knowing at last Amma truly had forgotten nothing. Caelys, Celine’s beloved doll and friend, lay nestled in the quilt's hollow, as though she had simply been waiting for Celine to find her. Her black button eyes caught the sunlight. Strands of Celine’s own hair, meticulously sewn in place, spilled loose and glossy over the limp shoulders. Caelys’ purple dress was magically wrinkle free with a white lace neckline. Celine’s gaze moved to the small feet covered by black shoes. Touching them, she remembered all the times she stood Caelys against a supporting wall or piece of furniture co Celine could read to her out loud. For only a moment the little girl smiled at the memory until she remembered. There was never going to be another such memory. Blinking away threatening tears, Celine lifted Caelys from the quilt with both hands and held her against her chest, pretending it was the doll’s breathing she heard instead of her own. Warmth spread over her. Amma had been right. She was not alone. So overcome was she that she barely felt her heart listening to the hum, suspecting nothing until the knock sounded on the wood door. “Caelys, did you hear?” When the doll remained silent, Celine closed her eyes, concentrating on the hums’s tone. Standing, she approached the door. With each step she grew less afraid for the hum was peaceful. “Safe,”it told her. “Believe.” Long, careful seconds turned into minutes until there was another knock. Celine jumped at the thud. Would dangerous strangers knock before barging in to kill her? She did not believe so. “Celine, are you there?” Kind empathy spoke from outside in the cold. “I am Maris, wife to your father, Kellan. Your grandmother reached out to us. She urged us to come. Nothing would do but Kellan must come right away. We have brought our son, Caspian.” Silence. Celine’s shock froze her where she was until a little boy’s voice called a little louder.

Chapter 3** The sounds rose from the valley, distant thunder slipping into stormy weather Celine could not deny. Hoofbeats first — many of them, pounding hard along the valley road. They bore a rhythm so intense, her stomach clenched. Next were voices, carried by strong winds where each dissipated just as they reached Celine’s ears. Then steel. She knew that sound now in a way she had not until two days ago when Voss’ steel sword hit scabbard. The ring and scrape of blade on blade, the percussion of it rising and falling — the horrible music of men killing each other in the mud below. It was the sound that had taken Amma from her, and no amount of distance softened it. Celine pressed herself against the wall beside the window, her shoulder blades flat against the cold stone, her chin lifted as though stillness itself might protect her. Not in front of it. She had learned that much. Her hands found each other in the folds of her shift and held on. Usually Amma held her hand, but there was no such reassurance now. There was only the wall, the cold and deadly steel rising from below. Through the bare branches she could see movement — dark shapes against the pale morning, horses wheeling and plunging, men struggling at the margins of her sight. They were far, too obscured to make out faces or colors or who was winning. Yesterday she had imagined battle as something from the illuminated pages of Amma’s books — banners bright against a clean sky, swords catching the light like something noble. There was nothing noble in what rose from the valley. Only chaos. Iron striking iron. The shriek of a horse in terror. What was worse than the man’s shouting was the particular silence that followed. The hum held steady in her chest through all of it. That low, warm pulse, patient and unhurried, the one constant that had not abandoned her when everything else had, did not quicken in alarm. It did not press her toward the window or away from it. It held, like a hand, waiting to be read. Blindly, her fingers found the leather pouch at her waist and pressed against it, feeling for the familiar shapes inside: the edges of the cards, and beneath them the smooth weight of the Sorvaine. She did not take it out. Not yet. Only holding it through the leather, the way she had held Amma’s hand in the dark when she was smaller, needing only to know it was there.

**Chapter 3** The sounds rose from the valley, distant thunder slipping into stormy weather Celine could not deny. Hoofbeats first — many of them, pounding hard along the valley road. They bore a rhythm so intense, her stomach clenched. Next were voices, carried by strong winds where each dissipated just as they reached Celine’s ears. Then steel. She knew that sound now in a way she had not until two days ago when Voss’ steel sword hit scabbard. The ring and scrape of blade on blade, the percussion of it rising and falling — the horrible music of men killing each other in the mud below. It was the sound that had taken Amma from her, and no amount of distance softened it. Celine pressed herself against the wall beside the window, her shoulder blades flat against the cold stone, her chin lifted as though stillness itself might protect her. Not in front of it. She had learned that much. Her hands found each other in the folds of her shift and held on, fingers lacing together the way they had when she was small and the dark felt too large, back when Amma’s hand had always been there to close around both of hers and make the dark smaller. There was no hand now. There was only the wall and the cold and the sounds rising from below. Through the bare branches she could see movement — dark shapes against the pale morning, horses wheeling and plunging, men struggling at the margins of her sight. Too far, too obscured to make out faces or colors or who was winning. She was grateful for that, at least. Yesterday she had imagined battle as something from the illuminated pages of Amma’s books — banners bright against a clean sky, swords catching the light like something noble. There was nothing noble in what rose from the valley. Only chaos. Iron striking iron. The shriek of a horse in terror. What was worse than the man’s shouting was the particular silence that followed. The hum held steady in her chest through all of it. That low, warm pulse, patient and unhurried, the one constant that had not abandoned her when everything else had, did not quicken in alarm. It did not press her toward the window or away from it. It held, like a hand, waiting to be read. Blindly, her fingers found the leather pouch at her waist and pressed against it, feeling for the familiar shapes inside: the edges of the cards, and beneath them the smooth weight of the Sorvaine. She did not take it out. Not yet. Only holding it through the leather, the way she had held Amma’s hand in the dark when she was smaller, needing only to know it was there.