Firefly Glen morgunsól

sólhárr watched her with the cool indifference of a hunter inspecting prey. his golden eye, sharp as a blade, lingered on her movements—the way her paws searched for yarrow, the practiced motions of her tending. his chuff was low, rumbling with neither approval nor disdain, merely acknowledgment.

you need home, he said finally, his voice rough, each word an effort in the common tongue. his gaze flicked toward the distant horizon, where the mountains of forneskja loomed. not snow. not alone.

he remained still as she worked, unimpressed by her defiance, though it stirred something akin to respect in him. she was stubborn, this one, but stubbornness alone did not grant survival in the north. strength demanded more than just will; it demanded kin, hearth, purpose.

he tilted his head, studying her again as she turned back with her gathered herbs. why not find one? pack. family. the words carried weight, but his tone made it clear he would not plead for her answer. she would survive, or she would not. the north was unkind, and so was he.