Neverwinter Forest get on up again,

Luhtar’s ears twitched as Solharr spoke, catching the weight in his tone. The Hárkonungr’s words carried a patience Luhtar didn’t have, an understanding of peace that felt foreign to him. His yellow eyes flicked to the forest, scanning the swaying undergrowth and towering trees, as if trying to see what Solharr saw. To Luhtar, it was still too quiet. Too still. It wasn’t lifeless, maybe, but it lacked the ferocity he was used to—a ferocity that made sense to him.

“Strength from patience,” he muttered, the words heavy on his tongue as if they didn’t quite fit. His steps slowed slightly, his gaze narrowing as he mulled over the thought. The north had shaped him, molded him with its harshness. It was all he had known.

But Solharr wasn’t wrong either. Never, was he wrong. Luhtar had seen wolves who couldn’t stop fighting, who carried the storm inside them even when the battle was over.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, his voice gruff but quieter now. “Maybe it’s good, this peace. But it feels like waiting. Like something’s coming, and the quiet’s just a trick to make you drop your guard.” His gaze shifted to Solharr, the bluntness in his tone softening slightly. “Or maybe I really am just as paranoid as my father.”