Bramblepoint old wounds

Aneira did not shift, not did she look away. She held his gaze, steady, measuring, unflinching. The weight of his words settled over her like snowfall, quiet and cold, sinking deep. The past carves us, it follows us. The frostmaiden knew this truth well enough; shaping and sharpening, leaving her standing, whole but not untouched. A breath passed between them, the space between silence and speech.
Then, finally, the silence broke: „The dead do not walk where I do; they watch.” Her voice was calm, without hesitation, not rejecting, a statement only. She did not flinch when the flameborn approached her. There was no solace to be found in ghosts, but neither did she flee from them. Aneira regarded him for a long moment, taking in the certainty in his step, the quiet offer of presence rather than platitude. For a brief moment, she wondered what might have scared the man so deeply that an army of dead traced his steps. 
He did not ask her to let them fade, did not offer meaningless solace. A path forward unraveled, offered, side by side. At last, she nodded; quiet, deliberate, a warrior’s acknowledgment and a survivor’s answer.
„Then lead.” Teal gaze lingered on him, deep down hoping he would not lead her near walls, near stone.