Greatwater Lake No peace for the wicked

Stark’s ear flicked at the huff she released, a subtle acknowledgment of her presence but no concession of power. His lone golden eye finally broke from the water, turning toward the shadow lingering at his back. She was close now, close enough that the faint tension in the air between them felt like a drawn bowstring.

Her scent spoke of stories untold. Stories Stark had no interest in hearing unless they intersected with his own.

“Why am I here?” he echoed, his voice low, deliberate, like the roll of distant thunder. “Because it’s quiet. Because it doesn’t ask questions.”

He turned his head then, the hollow scar of his missing eye facing her for a heartbeat before his golden gaze locked on hers. His expression was unreadable, sharp yet composed, but there was a flicker of something beneath the surface—a knowing, a shadow of understanding that he didn’t care to voice.

His posture shifted slightly, muscles coiling with a readiness that belied his otherwise calm demeanor. Though he didn’t rise, there was no mistaking the tension in his frame, the way he watched her with the quiet precision of a predator.