Hideaway Strath in death's shadow

Qvasir observed her for a moment, the faint flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as her words came soft yet deliberate, surprising in their vulnerability. He dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment, his voice calm and low. De nada, he replied, the Spanish phrase rolling effortlessly from his tongue.

Her question hung in the air, heavy with curiosity and veiled suspicion. He leaned back, his posture composed but carrying a quiet edge of detachment.

Was, he corrected simply, the single word a sharp cut, though not unkind. His gaze lingered on her, unflinching yet distant, as though weighing whether to say more. He let the silence stretch just long enough to feel the weight of his truth before he added, I walk alone.

There was no further explanation, no unraveling of the tangled threads that had brought him to this point. He was a man of few words, and this was all he chose to give. With a faint nod, he turned his attention to the horizon, his posture signaling that their exchange was complete—at least for now.