The fire from the previous night had burned low, leaving the cabin steeped in warmth but dimly lit. Faint wisps of smoke curled from the hearth, mingling with the earthy scent of timber and ash. The faint light of dawn seeped through the cracks in the walls, bathing the room in a pale, silvery glow.
Lucien crouched near the embers, prodding them gently with a stick. The faint warmth of the fire seemed to mirror his mood—calm, unhurried. He hummed absently, the same tuneless melody from the night before, as if the rhythm of the cabin had settled comfortably into his bones. "A little life left in it," he murmured, tossing another piece of wood onto the embers.
On the other side of the room, Taryn moved with her usual lack of grace, her irritation practically radiating off her in waves. She stood near the makeshift shelves, scowling as she tried to organize the scattered contents. Her movements were sharp and impatient, and the task seemed to resist her efforts at every turn.
