The tavern was silent.
Not the usual quiet—the kind after the last patron stumbled into the streets, the kind that carried the distant hum of a town still alive outside its doors. This was true silence.
No voices. No movement. No clatter of dice or the scrape of boots against wood.
The tavern was closed.
And that was the problem.
Taryn sat at the long table, rolling a small glass between her fingers, watching the way the firelight flickered against the rim. The warmth of the hearth should have made the space feel lived in, but instead, it pressed against her ribs like something was missing.
Because it was.
She hadn't let herself think about it—not really. The cabin was gone. Their home, the one they had built with their own hands, reduced to nothing but scorched wood and ash.
And now they were here.
A bed. A roof. A fire that wasn't made just to keep them alive. Stability.
