Altar of Twilight ᓯᕐᓚᔪᖅ

the wind carried the scent of cedar and loam—aged, steady. solharr moved through the shadowed valley like a memory stitched into its quiet edges, a hulking figure shaped by the north, now far from his forest. distance did not unsettle him; he had roamed farther, through ruin and frost, through war and wind. but he was not here for himself.

he was searching.

his eyes swept over the glade, catching on each rise and fall of the land, the way water cut through it like veins. it was quiet. peaceful. and for a moment, he let himself listen.

a soft hum.

he turned his head, ears twitching toward the sound—a song low and old, something carved from bone and spirit. he followed it without hurry, and the moonlit grove opened to reveal her.

the woman was a vision of stillness, folded into the earth like she’d grown from it. he did not speak at first. only approached with the patience of someone who did not wish to disturb the sacred.