Golden Glade demuts

Qvasir’s gaze followed Atoztli’s movements, his expression stoic, though his eyes sharpened with a subtle pride. He respected those who knew the value of a kill—the weight of taking life.

His voice was steady, low, carrying the simplicity of a soldier’s report. I snapped its neck.

There was no need for embellishment. The act had been swift—clean. The mountain goat had fought, as all things did when faced with death, but Qvasir’s jaws had been stronger. Precise. The crack of bone still echoed faintly in his mind.

He glanced at her, measuring her reaction, before his gaze returned to the carcass. It was a good death.