The fire had burned out.
The realization slammed into Val as brutal as the cold as he stumbled toward the damp, blackened remains.
Thin trails of smoke hissed up from the ash, and the chill that clung to the cave walls was sharper now — gnawing through his already-soaked skin, numbing the careful heat he had hoarded for her.
Panic rose, a raw and ugly thing.
Val dropped to his knees by the firepit, shoving stiff, salt-caked kindling together with shaking hands, trying to coax the damp wood to catch.
Sparks hissed and died. His breath came hard and fast, clouding the air in front of him in a haze of steam.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Yara lay only a few feet away, his thick cloak bundled around her trembling frame.
Her face — gods, her face — was far too pale, slick with fever-sweat, her brow furrowed in restless pain.
Too pale.
Too still.
