Bramblepoint old wounds

he watched her with the stillness of stone—unmoving, but not unfeeling.

her words had not been flippant. they held weight. and he respected weight.

when her nod came, deliberate as a blade being sheathed, he offered one in return. a warrior’s answer deserved a warrior’s reply.

i am sólhárr, he said, voice carved from mountain and dusk. harkonungr of forneskja.

a pause followed—not long, but long enough to mark significance.

these woods are not mine, he added, gaze drifting to the boughs above. but my people move through them. i carry their names. their dead.

his eyes returned to her, steady, assessing.

and you? he asked, not unkindly.