The Wall Toome

the shift in her was subtle but telling; the tension in her frame had eased, her guard lowering just enough to betray her exhaustion. he could respect that, though it did little to soften the edge of his own expression.

your name? he said gruffly, the question a demand more than a request. his voice carried no malice, but the sharpness of it left no room for hesitation. he was not a man for pleasantries, yet something in him wanted to anchor this memory—this strange, icy woman against the backdrop of the wilderness.

she planned on going east. east. maybe the winds would carry them, or he'd track her down himself. an unlikely coincidence. but faust could play as a spearheaded, devoting man as long as he pleased. there was no telling what he could muster. rugged. underlying currents. he couldn't deny the ravensblood in his veins; cyclical nature of what a man would want. 

he was exhausted being a gentlemen. there was no promise of return, no lingering glance to suggest anything more. he stood then, approaching her against her shrouded position against the tree. a breath leaving him in the cold air, a cloud of heat. women follow strength.