Silver Moraine [m] I a[m] the edge of the blade,

faust followed, swift and silent, until the chase slowed. the crest of the moraine offered stillness, the world beneath them drawn in pale blue and wind. he halted a few paces behind her, chest rising with steady breath, plume of frost curling from his muzzle.
her words rolled like stone across the snow: i choose you.
his ears flicked. his gaze did not soften, only narrowed—curious, unreadable. when she moved alongside him, brushing her coat against his, he allowed it. accepted it. a warrior’s exchange. a moment. not a promise.
we are not wed, he said simply, voice low, eyes trailing the curve of the mountaintop. the wind lifted the ruff of his neck as he turned slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. but you know you are welcome on the mount.
his tone did not tease. it was an offering without weight, given and gone, like snow shaken from a pine. the look he gave her held respect—and nothing possessive. a man who recognized strength when he saw it, who played the game of heat and blood for what it was: instinct, not permanence.