The afternoon broke quietly over the clearing, the sunlight filtering through the trees and painting the ground with soft, dappled light. The cabin, now standing sturdily at the center of their temporary refuge, exuded a sense of hard-won stability. The fire pit in the middle of the clearing sat cold, its ashes scattered and forgotten—a symbol of their growing complacency.
Inside, Lucien hummed a tuneless melody as he chopped herbs on the rough wooden table. The smell of freshly ground spices filled the air, mingling with the faint earthy scent of damp wood. He paused, holding up a sprig of something green and pungent. "Basil?" he mused aloud, glancing toward the corner where Taryn sat. "Or mint? They both say 'culinary genius,' but which says it better?"
Taryn didn't look up from her blade. She dragged a whetstone along its edge with slow, deliberate precision, the rhythmic scraping filling the room. "The one that doesn't make me gag," she muttered.
