Otter Creek a raft of otters

Stark watched as Needle stepped past him, the forced march of her limbs betraying how hard she fought to outrun whatever ghosts she carried. His eye trailed after her, noting the tension in her shoulders, the brittle set of her jaw.

She’d lied—he could taste it in the air as keenly as blood—but he wouldn’t press. Not now.

“Rogues,” he echoed simply. No judgment, no disbelief, just acknowledgment.

He turned, following at a measured pace, keeping the silence intact for a time. If there was one mercy he could grant her, it was not to pry. They had shared enough pain today—better to walk alongside it than force it to speak.

Finally, he offered a quiet hum, low and steady, like distant thunder. “So be it,” he said, his tone level, giving her distance without withdrawing completely.

He would not pretend her words had been satisfying, nor would he punish her for guarding her past as fiercely as he guarded his.

fade?