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

his eyes held hers, unflinching. the fire in her voice did not unsettle him—it moved through him, echoed something old and buried in his blood. she made her terms. not a plea, not a request, but a truth laid bare.
he stepped closer, the silence between them thick as stone. then, finally, words—low and steady, like distant thunder:
i will stay for a week, he said, voice rough with cold and meaning. test me. make me bleed.
a pause, and then—softly, but no less sure:
but the glacier calls.
there was no lie in him. no sweetened promise of permanence. only the weight of what was, what could be, and what must return. but for now, for the days that remained, he would walk beside her. and when the sun rose again, he would be there. not forever, but present.