Golden Glade mourn the wicked

cozamalotl noted her caution, the way her ear remained trained on him, the subtle tension in her step. he did not fault her for it. trust was a luxury, and they were both creatures carved by its misfortune.  

the silence between them was thick, broken only by the storm's restless whisper through the pines. he did not ask where she led him, nor did he press for more than she was willing to give. he simply followed, his presence steady, his breath slow and measured against the winter air.  

then, her voice rose—thin, deliberate, calling for another. of course, she wouldn't grant him full passage. he was no fool to expect otherwise. his dark brown eyes flickered toward her, unreadable but firm.  

you don't trust me it was not a question. his tone was even, neither wounded nor surprised. 

he stopped just short of the unseen boundary, his posture composed, yet undeniably self-assured. his breath curled in the cold, but his voice remained warm, deep as the earth beneath the snow.  

but know she will not come.

apologies for the delay, life got in the way for a cool min!