Larksong Grotto deep down, you know that we are the same

a rasping little laugh behind her was like a blade drawn in the dark—sharp, uninvited, promising trouble. yet she didn’t turn until the stranger was already sliding closer, trailing words and questions like fingers over old wounds. her pale gaze shifted slow, indifferent, as if regarding some curious insect crawling too close to her skin.

she hummed dryly, a broken huff of laughter. "ekki nógu nálægt."

the scar stood stark against her throat, pale and cruel. an executioner’s mark denied its ending. and though her body had healed, her posture was still that of a soldier—rigid spine, cold eyes, tension coiled beneath her skin like a beast in waiting.

"enginn maður norðursins," she added after a pause. "eitthvað ljótt. hann mun samt deyja í því." a vague, half-hearted smile ghosted across her muzzle then, humorless and dark.