The wind was restless that night.
It scraped against the wooden shutters of the abandoned cottage, whispering through every crack as if trying to warn them of something neither of them were ready to face. Inside, the fire had burned low, casting long shadows that pulsed with every flicker of the dying flames. The room smelled faintly of damp earth, old dust, and the remnants of fear that both of them tried so hard to conceal.
Alyss sat on the edge of the narrow bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her knuckles were pale, her breaths shallow. She had been silent for a long time—so long that Raven, standing by the window, hadn't realized he was holding his breath too.
"You don't have to keep protecting me like this," Alyss finally whispered, her voice barely louder than the wind. "I'm not a child, Raven."
