Moonstone Quarry The world that hardens as the harsher winter holds

Days had passed in solitude, the wilderness stretching endless and indifferent beneath the frostmaidens quiet contemplation. The choice had not been made lightly, nor in haste, but as the winds shifted, so too did her path. And so, in time, she found herself on the threshold of the quarry.
Aneira did not call her presence forth with words, nor did she move as an intruder might. Her approach was the whisper of snowfall on stone, silent, certain, until the space between them was measured only by a breath. The scent of him filled her lungs then, earth and pine, the lingering trace of leather and toil. Her gaze, sharp as hoarfrost, traced the land before her; the jagged edges, their quiet, enduring strength.
„The quarry,” she murmured at last, breaking the silence between them, „I wished to see it for myself.” The words carried no decision, only intention. Was this a stronghold or a graveyard? A place to build or one already fated to ruin? She did not yet know, but she had come. A flicker of unease brushed against her thoughts, fragile, fleeting, until her gaze settled on the flameborn. Solharr, standing as he had before, the oxen hide a mantle of labor and legacy, the weight of it speaking of burdens carried and battles fought.
„You told me of endurance,” she continued, her voice quieter now, considering, edged with something almost warm, „Show me what it is you endure.”