Silver Moraine kill

he hums at her words, considering them. tartok. a chosen brotherhood. the idea is not unfamiliar to him—darukaal, too, is built upon loyalty, upon those who have proven themselves worthy through blood and struggle. but there is something else in her voice, something more than just the words she speaks.
his gaze flickers to her as she explains, watching the way she carries herself, the pride in her voice, the unyielding certainty in her convictions. he does not doubt her strength. he would not mind more tartok among his ranks.
her question pulls his attention downward, to the scars that mar his ankles. she looks at them with something like reverence, but he only shakes his head. boys become men after their blood rite, he tells her, voice steady, old traditions sitting heavy on his tongue. severed ankles impedes what warriors need most.
his mouth curves slightly, something like amusement, something like memory. makes us use our heads.
he flexes the limb slightly, though the pain has long since left him. it is not the first wound he has earned, and it will not be the last. i have no patience for foolish warriors, he adds, glancing at her now, as if measuring something unseen. but i will never turn one away.
it is a lesson he has learned, one that has carved itself into his very being. and yet, he wonders—would tartok have made him stronger? made him something else? would he have earned his place there, as he has in darukaal?
it is a thought for another time. for now, he walks with her, their steps easy, steady, side by side.