Blackfeather Woods Angel of small death

roan watched her, his pale eyes tracking her every movement with quiet intensity. he didn’t respond to her comment, her breath of a laugh barely acknowledged. his silence wasn’t meant to dismiss—it was deliberate, calculated. words held little value when his gaze could say enough.

as she moved, circling and retreating, roan turned slightly to keep her in his peripheral. he didn’t follow, but neither did he turn away, his posture remaining strong and vigilant. she was small to him, fragile, her limp a glaring vulnerability that struck him as both pitiful and compelling. something so breakable shouldn’t be wandering alone.

his nose twitched faintly as he exhaled through it, a soft, wordless sound that barely disturbed the cold air. he didn’t need to close the distance; he was already there, a shadow looming in her mind even as she put space between them. yes.

if she expected more from him, she’d find only what he chose to offer—his presence, watchful and unmoving, a quiet reminder that she was seen, and that was enough.