The rain has settled into a steady drumming against the cabin roof by the time we reach Silas’s place.
The scent of damp earth and growing things is strong here, mixed with the faint, comforting aroma of herbs and aged wood that always clings to Silas.
His cabin, unlike mine, feels lived-in, cozy, a true haven. Nox follows me closely, his presence a warm weight at my back, but he keeps his distance, waiting for me to lead.
I push open the wooden door, and Silas, perched on a stool, meticulously grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle, looks up.
His eyes, usually sharp and knowing, widen in surprise, then soften with a mixture of relief and something else—disappointment, perhaps.
“Tamsin,” he breathes, setting down his tools with a gentle clatter. “Well, I’ll be damned. You’re real
