Altar of Twilight ᓯᕐᓚᔪᖅ

her words, kind as they were, passed over him like wind through old stone—felt, but not moved by. not yet. not tonight.

you will walk with another.

he said nothing.

instead, sólhárr sank slowly to the earth, his great frame folding down with deliberate weight. the cold kissed his limbs. he welcomed it. bone met soil, muscle met frost. the weight of silence settled around them like snow.

his eyes rose to the sky.

and there, the moon.

still.

watching.

he wondered if she saw it too—wherever she had gone. if callyope knew he still looked for her shape in every flicker of firelight, still listened for her voice in the rustle of pine.

he did not speak to the woman beside him. not yet. not in words. but in that long, slow breath that left his lungs, heavy with memory, there was something unspoken.

then, after a time—long enough for the world to quiet again—he nodded.

just once.

a quiet answer.

he would watch the moon. for a little longer. and he would let her sit beside him, not because he needed her voice, but because grief was less cruel when shared.