The morning after, everything felt off in the cabin—like the kind of hush that settles after someone's said something they can't take back. Lyra was gone before the sun, off hunting with Ronan, and the silence they left behind wasn't sharp or dangerous. It was more like that strange, suspended quiet before a storm breaks.
Selvara was at the battered table, grinding herbs with a stone pestle, her movements sure and steady. The scent—sharp and earthy—filled the cramped little place, and for a second, I was a kid again, watching my mother's hands before Marisol swept in and turned our house into a tomb.
"You didn't sleep," Selvara said, not even glancing up.
I jabbed at the fire, watched the flames chew up fresh logs. "Didn't see the point."
"Because of last night?"
I shrugged. "Because of everything."
She slowed, her hands going still for a moment. "You felt something out there, didn't you? In the snow, alone."
