Moonstone Quarry The winter sunrise, red on white

the wind dry and cold, it scraped through the quarry with a sharpness that caught in the lungs. it tasted of stone and coming springs. beneath it, the world grew still—hunger rising where the trees thinned and the deer had gone quiet.

sólhárr stood where the moonlight touched the edge of a broken pillar, one forepaw rested against the smooth face of old quartz. the sky above was bruised, heavy with the promise of another long night.

he did not howl.
he often never did.

instead, his one eye scanned the narrow paths between ledges, the half-formed trails worn into the shale. his breath ghosted the air. he had been watching the new one—@Ezra. something careful in him. not soft. not wild. watchful. like a creature who had been hunted once, and had learned to turn sharp corners to stay alive.

a good trait.