Bearclaw Valley politics

tvar listens in silence, patient, giving ancelin room to speak. he sees the wounds there, hidden beneath laughter and a careful shrug of indifference. but pain, he knows, is never truly forgotten—only carried.
aye, he murmurs after a pause. but you left. you made something new. his gaze shifts, distant yet present, as though recalling places he himself once knew—places left behind, abandoned, changed.
sometimes letting go is strength, too, he adds, eyes flickering to the rex. it doesn’t erase the past. just…makes room.
a small nod, gentle understanding unspoken but clear.
you’ve done well, ancelin. rex of bearclaw valley. a tease, then. as he bumps his head upon the man's shoulder when he passes by.