Hideaway Strath in death's shadow

Qvasir regarded her, his amber eyes steady as he considered her words. The remnants of the meal nudged toward him were met with a faint, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment. He didn’t reach for it, though; instead, he tilted his head slightly, watching her with a curious, calculating air.

What other choice do I have? he asked, his voice low and even, carrying a hint of resignation. His gaze flickered briefly to the horizon before settling back on her. Not all of us are meant for the comfort of packs, of companionship. Some paths are walked alone because they must be.

There was no bitterness in his tone, only the weight of hard-earned truth. Yet, as he studied her expression—the glimmer of something hopeful in her eyes—his resolve softened, if only for a moment.

But, he added, his voice quieter now, perhaps not always.

He didn’t elaborate, shifting his weight and giving her a faint, almost reluctant smile. For now, that was as much as he was willing to share.