Golden Glade mourn the wicked

cozamalotl’s ears flicked back as her voice cut through the storm, sharp and pointed despite the howl of the wind. he turned his head toward her, his dark brown eyes steady, calm against the storm’s chaos. for a moment, he said nothing, his gaze tracing her form.

mictēcacihuātl. he replied simply, his tone soft but firm, the edges of his words carried gently on the wind.

he lowered his head slightly, a gesture of neither submission nor defiance, but one of quiet acknowledgment. his breath formed fleeting clouds in the frozen air as he held her gaze, unyielding but not challenging. vine buscándola a ella. es la única digna de seguir. los demás son unos tontos por haberla expulsado.

there was a brewing anger to his words, the unseen thunder that came before lightening, one that mirrored the machismo of the other males who would often look down upon him with disgust. this new world offered him what he could never have.