Silver Moraine i am a result

the wind carried scents in slow waves, twisting and fading before they settled. most were unremarkable, claimed by the ever-shifting tundra. but one—one stood out like a thorn beneath her skin.

smoke and cedar. it was familiar, unmistakable. she did not need to see him to know, not when his scent pressed into her nose.

her lips curled into a fond half-smile, and her pace quickened to a steady trot. she met the fog head-on as she follows the trail.

"blackfell," she murmured, more to the wind than to herself, letting the name shape itself on her tongue.