Duskfire Glacier marrok

his lips curve into a slow, knowing smile—one that does not quite reach his eyes, though there is no absence of warmth. she was young, so young, with dreams still untarnished by the weight of reality. she did not yet understand the gravity of what she offered.
his fingers ghost over hers, steady, grounding.
it is not sons i want most, lousine. his voice is low, firm but gentle, a vow wrapped in steel. it is a wife.
darukaal would rise, yes. his blood would pass into the next generation, as was expected. but it was not expectation that pulled him to her, that made him bend to meet her gaze, his breath skimming her cheek.
it is you i want.
his paw traces the delicate bones of her wrist, reverent, as though committing her touch to memory.
sons will come. but i do not need them to make this real.