Otter Creek a raft of otters

Stark’s gaze lingered on the water, watching the creatures move with an efficiency that almost demanded respect. His fur ruffled slightly as the morning breeze swept over him, yet he remained still, as if rooted to the earth. When Needle’s wide-eyed question reached his ears, he did not turn immediately. Instead, he let a moment pass, his thoughts churning like the slow current before them.

“They are otters,” he said finally, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of someone who spoke not just to answer but to be heard. “River-dwellers, quick and cunning. They are not prey worth chasing—more trouble than gain.”

His gaze shifted to Needle then, and though his expression remained composed, there was a faint flicker of something else, something guarded. He could see her amazement, untempered and genuine. She was young enough to marvel at such things, and for a moment, he envied her for it. Wonder was not something he allowed himself.

“They live as they must,” he continued, the tone of his voice lowering slightly. “Not strong, not particularly dangerous, yet they endure.”

For a moment, he considered saying more, but instead, he turned his focus back to the water, his expression hardening once again. Needle, he was sure, had had enough of his lessons for the next season.

There was no place for softness in him—not anymore. And yet, watching Needle’s curiosity, he wondered if he might have once been like her. If he could have ever been something other than what he was now.