The fire was dying.
The last of the embers smoldered weakly in the hearth, their glow casting elongated shadows on the floorboards. Heat had gone several hours before that, filling the cabin with the cold of winter, with the scent of weathered wood and cooling embers settling in around it.
Taryn stirred first.
Not because of sound—there was none.
Not because of movement—everything was still.
Because of the weight in the air.
A wrongness.
She woke abruptly, her pulse hammering, breath sharp in the cold. One hand was already reaching for the dagger beneath her pillow before her mind had caught up.
Something wasn't right.
The quiet was too deep.
Her fingers curled tighter around the hilt. She swallowed hard, listening.
No wind against the trees. No rustling leaves. No distant crack of ice shifting in the creek beyond the ridge.
Just silence.
And the bond.
Faint. Present. Waiting.