Golden Glade first dawn

sorry on the wait!

Qvasir emerged from the shadows like a wraith, his massive frame moving with the fluidity of a seasoned warrior, each step deliberate and soundless upon the snow-dusted earth. The silvered moonlight caught the sharp angles of his features, his jaded eyes cold and steady as they settled on Mictec.

He did not speak immediately, offering a shallow bow instead, the gesture steeped in reverence. The scent of the trial still clung to her, a sharp contrast to the clean bite of the winter air. He observed her closely, noting the way she carried herself now—changed, tempered by the fire of her ordeal.

Mictec, his voice was low, even, carrying the weight of approval without flourish. He inclined his head slightly toward the marigold seeds she carried. A faint exhale escaped him, a whisper of relief or perhaps pride.

Without another word, Qvasir fell into step behind her, his presence a silent promise of protection and support, an unspoken acknowledgment of her transformation. The stoic guardian did not need to say more—his actions were testament enough.