Silver Moraine i am a result

he does not stop walking, though his ears tilt, though something sharpens in his chest.

he knows before he sees.

blackfell moves through the mist, slow, steady, but his breath is deeper now. he has not seen her in—how long? too long.

his name comes on the wind, barely more than a whisper, but he hears it.

he halts. turns.

jora.

his legs move before thought can catch up, before distance can mock him any longer.

when he reaches her, he pulls her in—tight, unyielding, crushing in the way only blood can be.