Golden Glade mourn the wicked

cozamalotl’s dark brown eyes followed her movement, sharp but unreadable. he did not flinch under her scrutiny, nor did he avert his gaze as her words—raw and commanding—settled over him like the snow gathering on his fur. his features, carved with the quiet dignity of someone accustomed to bearing his own burdens, remained still.  

he shifted, the faintest tilt of his head acknowledging her, though his posture remained firmly his own. you lead, and i will follow - for now he said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the storm like a blade through mist. the words carried the weight of his pride, but also something unspoken, a quiet understanding that she had earned this moment of deference.  

cozamalotl moved toward her path, his movements deliberate, unhurried, as if the groaning of the forest and the tempest above could not touch him. as he ducked under the green needles after her, his presence was neither submissive nor threatening—just resolute, as unyielding as the winter itself.