The rain came without warning, a heavy downpour that turned the clearing into a mud-soaked pit. Fat droplets hammered against the half-finished roof, spilling through gaps in cold rivulets that splashed onto the uneven ground. The fire barely clung to life, sputtering against the rising wind as Taryn crouched nearby, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.
Her breath came in shallow bursts, more from the chill than the effort of holding herself still. The dampness had soaked through her coat, her tunic, her boots—everything clung to her, leeching what little warmth she had left. She couldn't stop shaking, her fingers almost too stiff to move.
Lucien glanced over from where he was wrestling with a sagging tarp, his soaked shirt clinging to his chest and shoulders. The sharpness in his gaze softened when it landed on her, and he called out over the storm, "Taryn. Come closer to the fire."
