The fire on the hearth had reduced to embers, faintly licking with lazy flames that danced along in shadows on the cabin walls. The smell of ash hung heavy, mingled with a sharper tang in the air from Taryn's blade scraping against the whetstone. The silence in the cabin was oppressive—weighed down by unspoken words from the night before.
Taryn sat closest to the fire, her shoulders hunched forward as she worked on her blade. Each scrape of the whetstone was deliberate, a steady rhythm that kept her hands busy even as her mind spiraled. The pull of the bond lingered in her chest—a faint hum, distant but constant. It was like a second heartbeat, always there to remind her of Lucien, even when she wanted space.
Lucien lounged near the window, one leg draped lazily over the arm of a chair, his silver eyes sharp and unreadable as they flicked between the other two. He paused for a moment as if considering his next move.
