Bramblepoint old wounds

he did not speak right away.

the forest pressed close around them—thick, unmoving, as if the trees themselves held breath for the answer. only the wind stirred the tips of his fur, the low moan of it threading between trunks like a dirge.

her words were not soft, but they were honest. and sólhárr was a man who respected honesty, even when it hurt.

the past does not unmake the living.

he looked at her, truly looked—the pale line of her spine, the way her eyes held sorrow not as weakness, but as fact. like his. like so many of his wolves.

no, he said at last. it doesn’t.

his voice was low, roughened like bark after storm, but steady. always steady.

but it carves us. and it follows.

he took a step closer—not invasive, but certain, as if by proximity alone he could offer some weight to anchor her to the present. to remind her she was seen.

the dead walk behind me, too, he said. some i buried. some i left behind. all of them know my name.

his gaze searched hers. not hard, not demanding—just quiet, and aware.

if you are followed, he said, then walk where they cannot reach.

a pause. one breath.

walk beside me.