Otter Creek a raft of otters

He had not expected that.

From many, he would have been met with silence, or pity, or the same hollow attempts at comfort he’d learned to brush aside. But she’d taken his pain like a blade, turning it into anger on his behalf. And somehow, that warmed him more than any quiet sympathy ever could.

Perhaps not by blood, but she saw him, and she took his suffering as if it were her own.

Stark’s golden eye narrowed, not in anger but in a kind of grim amusement. A slow, rumbling chuckle began low in his chest, rising until it shaped his breath into sound. Laughter—quiet, sardonic, and tinged with the cold satisfaction of someone who knew her wish had long been fulfilled.

He laughed not because the act she described was particularly noble, but because it was honest. Genuine.

His laughter subsided into a low hum, and he finally answered her with a tone that was almost gentle, if such a thing could be said of him. “Rest assured, gosling,” he said, meeting her eyes. “He’s already dead. Long ago."

He grows quieter. Then, spurred by some hesitant kinship, he inclines his head to ask: "Tell me of your family."