Firefly Glen verast

though foreign, they rolled like scripture, like something carried through blood rather than tongue.

the gesture was not lost on him. he understood.

the red-furred chief touched his own chest, just as slow.

sólhárr, he said, gravel-rich and hoarse from running. chief of forneskja.

a breath. another flick of his ear.

you fight like a northern god, he added, not as flattery—but as fact. a truth spoken with the weight of survival between them.

you’ll stay with us. rest. mend.

a pause. then, quieter—
if you want.