Bearclaw Valley needlework and seedlings,

tvar’s ears flicked as he listened, intent that she know he did listen. that he paid all the mind to her as they went on their walk. him following at her flank, gazing quietly upon her face. her words ebbed and flowed like a stream struggling to find its course. she spoke of being an heir, of a life that seemed to weigh heavy. he didn’t pry—her story was hers to tell. he was grateful for anything she might bestow him.

his sharp hazel eyes drifted toward her for a moment, his expression unreadable as he mulled over her words. it wasn’t a foreign concept to him—alliances forged through unions, the way kingdoms and packs often sought stability through shared bloodlines. it was practical, even if it didn’t always leave room for personal desires.

her comment pulls a soft huff from his barrel chest, the closest thing to a laugh he was capable of. “a wife with good conversation, good heart, and all the rest,” he tells her. “sounds like a fairytale.” his words are not dismissive, but the idea amused him. such a thing seemed impossible for him. once, he had thought he had such. but she had left. and thus, here he was. alone. his gaze shifts forward again, away from rala, watching the horizon as the sky darkened. the light waning reminded him of the winters in winterhelm, the long nights stretching endlessly.

“aye, let me ask you, rala. what kind of man do you see beside you, then? what does your fairytale look like?”