Altar of Twilight ᓯᕐᓚᔪᖅ

his breath rose like smoke in the cold—measured, steady, but not whole.

the wind, he echoed, as if tasting the word on his tongue. it can guide. or it can lie.

his gaze lingered on her—this woman spun from sea and sorrow. not broken, but searching. just as he was.

kin is not always blood, he said at last. sometimes the ones we find… hold more than the ones we were born to.

a pause. then, softer than before—raw, worn:

i hope the winds are honest with you, sinnatomak.

he looked to the moon only briefly before his gaze fell again to earth. grounded. waiting. mourning.