Herbalists' Cache dewclaw mountain

i know more than most, she said after a pause, her voice low, almost reverent. the snow outside their shelter crackled beneath the wind, but within, it was warm. quiet. his language is carved into bone. if you do not speak it, you will not survive his world. a beat passed, her eyes flicking to the opening of the shelter, as if picturing the mountains of her youth, the frozen halls, the place where she first heard the cadence of lanzadoii spoken in full.
it makes it easier—speaking to my husband. to understand him when he cannot say the things he feels. lanzadoii is not always a language of words. sometimes it is silence. sometimes it is a hand, or a look, or a tooth at your throat. another pause, this time more wistful. but when it is words… they are not wasted. not like common. they are chosen. meaningful.
she shifted, brushing her tail lightly against other shore’s side. we will start with the basics, she promised. names first. the moon. the sea. your name. my name. the words that matter most.
then, with a faint smile, she added, and one day—when you’re ready—you will speak it not just with your tongue, but with your heart. and he will understand you in a way only a lanzadoii can.

fade?