Bramblepoint old wounds

aneira. a name like snow and stone. he held it in silence, the way one might hold a blade—carefully, respectfully.

her truth rang clean. unadorned.

he understood. not as a man who pitied, but as one who shared the weight.

then we are alike.

his voice was low, grounded. no flourish, no echo. only the steady rasp of a mountain that had stood too long in winter.

forneskja is not made of blood. it is made of those who endure.

his gaze searched hers—not for weakness, not for softness, but for will.

a name is not a place, he said at last, repeating what she did not say. but it is a beginning.

he stepped aside, the pine bows shifting as he cleared the path behind him.