Ouroboros Spine shadows on the snow

the name, the title of the village, means little to him, but the pride in the boy's voice is not lost. it speaks of loyalty, of roots firmly planted, and for a moment, a flicker of something akin to envy passes behind his dull, yellow-grey eyes.

the offer of shelter is a fragile bridge extended across the chasm of their difference. he tilts his head slightly, considering. the storm does not faze him; it has long since become a familiar companion—alas, that is what masa would tell himself. he cannot ignore the brittle chill that bites at his bones, something not even his thick fur could fight off.

shelter is not what i seek, he says finally, averting yellow eyes from the yearling. who had offered his name in kind. i pass through. nothing more. but his words, though simple, leave much unsaid.