Duskfire Glacier northbound

his gaze drinks her in, unblinking. a ghost. a fever-dream from years long buried beneath snow and silence. he does not hear the bite in her words, nor feel the lash of her tail. not yet. not until later, when the wind has died and the ache she left in his ribs returns to throb.
right now, it is her face—sharp as he remembers, sharper still, honed by time and loss. she spits venom like she always did, and gods, he missed it.
his voles fall forgotten at his feet, scattering like leaves. slow as the dusk tide, he steps forward, heavy paws pressing into the frost. when she circles him, he turns with her, eyes tracking every movement as though she might vanish if he dared blink.
and then, wordless, he reaches.
scarred paws cup her face, rough as the mountain, trembling in the barest way. his nose drops to press to her temple, dragging slow to the hollow beneath her ear, where her scent still clings. primal. familiar. home.
you're alive. it falls from him like an exhale, like something sacred. no clever words. no excuses. just the truth of it, raw and aching and full of quiet relief.
he pulls back just enough to look at her, evergreen eyes searching her hardened expression, trying to find the girl she used to be beneath the woman she's become. but it's all there. all of her.
and i disappoint you. he huffs, almost smiling, though it's more breath than sound. good. means some things never changed.
his thumbs drag down her cheeks, reluctant to let go. gods above, he'd missed her. missed this. the only piece of the old world left.
tell me you're staying.