Firefly Glen verast

sólhárr stood, ribs heaving beneath the weight of exhaustion and blood drying stiff in his coat. snow clung to the underside of his limbs, but he did not shake it. his breath came in clouds, great fogs of warmth pouring from his nose as the trees stood witness.

the stranger's paw found his neck, firm and familiar—like two warriors after the storm. sólhárr flinched slightly from instinct, then did not move, only turned his silver gaze to meet the man’s.

the words meant little—sweltan, wīgmann—but the meaning was clear. warriors. death.

his ears flicked. breath escaped him again in a tired huff, a ghost of a laugh buried beneath it.

you could have too, he murmured, voice low and rough with pain.

then, after a pause—
we live. a nod.
you have my respect. another breath.
name?