Chapter 60 Silent Measures

• The fire had burned down to embers by the time Lucy woke. She rolled from her cot and pulled the thick blanket tighter around her shoulders, eyes flicking toward the window. Beyond the frost-glazed panes, the morning was colorless, a smear of gray sky pressing over the city. The silence outside was not peace but a warning—it was the hush of people too afraid to leave their homes.
• She rose, careful not to wake Daren. He slept as he always did, knife within reach, face unreadable even in dreams. Ash and Lira stirred by the hearth, pale shapes curled in the faint glow. The foxes’ ears twitched at her movement, but they didn’t rise; they knew her routine.
• Lucy climbed to the rooftop greenhouse, breath clouding in the frigid air. Inside, the runes etched beneath the soil hummed faintly with their quiet promise of life. Herbs thrived against the cold—mint, sage, feverfew—all hardy green against a world that had forgotten warmth. She clipped stems with practiced precision, setting them into her basket, and later spread them on the drying rack in the kitchen. These small tasks steadied her, the rhythm of preparation keeping fear from gnawing too deeply.