Silver woke up at the sound of rain.
At first, she didn't know where she was, her gaze wandered across the room. The ceiling above her was made of rough wooden planks, dark with age. Water dripped slowly through a crack somewhere near the corner. The smell of smoke and wet wood filled the air.
When she tried to move, a sharp pain spread through her ribs. She gasped softly, freezing in place. The cloth covering her felt heavy and the smell of sandalwood still lingers in it. Her body was hot, her head pounding like drums.
She blinked a few times until her eyes adjusted to the dim light. There was a small fire burning in a stone hearth. The space was small and simple—broken furniture pushed to one side, old hunting tools rusting in a corner, and a chair near the fire that looks like it would break apart any day.
Then her eyes fixed at him.
Dasheill sat beside the fire, his back straight, bow leaning within reach. His sleeves were rolled up, his clothes still damp from the rain.
