Golden Glade Born of fire, bound to nothing

Aitana let her gaze sweep across the clearing as they entered, taking in the rough beginnings of what Mictec clearly envisioned as a future home. Her steps were unhurried, her expression unreadable save for the faintest arch of a brow. The place had potential, she’d give it that.

The natural shelter of the rock formation, the way the trees formed a protective embrace around the space—it was practical, grounded. A good start, though nothing that would keep the cold at bay without effort. She tilted her head at Mictec’s words, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Ambitious,” she said.

Her gaze lingered on the half-formed den, then flicked back to Mictec. The mention of a name caught her attention, the weight of it settling in the air like a stone dropped into still water. Tlalticpac. Aitana mouthed the word silently, testing its cadence, its feel.

Aitana’s smirk widened, her head tilting slightly. “Ah, invierno,” she mused, her tone slipping into something playful, almost mocking. “It doesn’t care about prayers or promises. You’re going to need more than good intentions when the snow piles up, amiga.” She shifted.

"Good thing you've got me around."