Ouroboros Spine To all things housed in her silence

her voice, soft as snowfall, held the weight of generations. and he—who had buried his grief in the stone of his own silence—felt each word as a hammer upon the walls he’d built around his heart.

the name of ajei stirred something bitter-sweet in him, as did the mention of daughters lost. he had known grief like a lover, now he wore it like a second skin.

then let it be ajei, he said, softly, when she paused. if the gods have named her, i will not go against it.

his head dipped then, reverently, not as king to elder—but as man to woman, grief to grief.

i will see what women are eligible, he said at last, a vow spoken not for himself, but for the future still yet unseen. then came the weightier truth, the ache that throbbed beneath it all.

i wish to move forneskja, he told her.

a pause. breath misted into the quiet between them.

forward. his gaze, steady now, though rimmed in sorrow, lifted to hers. always.