Hideaway Strath in death's shadow

Qvasir stopped as Mictec stumbled, his sharp gaze sweeping over her with a mix of assessment and concern. It was clear she was in no condition to be moving, let alone hunting. Her earlier pride, palpable in the way she carried herself, had been undercut by her weakened state.

Mictec, he repeated, the name rolling off his tongue with deliberate ease, allowing it to settle between them. His tone was measured, neither mocking nor indulgent, but there was something steady in it—grounded, like the earth beneath their paws.

You’re in no shape for this, he observed, his pale gaze catching the strain in her movements. His voice was calm but left little room for argument. Stay here. I’ll find something for you.

He didn’t wait for her response, turning his lean frame toward the shadows of the woods. As he moved, the faint sound of his footsteps blended with the growing quiet of the forest. His pace was unhurried but purposeful, his every movement suggesting that he had no intention of leaving her stranded—or starving.