Moonstone Quarry The winter sunrise, red on white

the sound of ezra’s chuff folded into the stone and wind as if it belonged there, part of the hollow rhythm of the quarry—sharp, then gone. he didn’t turn at first. just kept his eye on the quartz-veined wall, where the sunlight cut jagged through a crack, illuminating nothing.

you walk quiet, he said, voice rough with disuse, but not unkind. that’s good.

a pause, long enough for the dust to settle around his paws.

then he turned. the hollow socket where his right eye had been did not flinch, did not seek. it knew better than to try. his good eye studied the man—slight tension in the shoulders, restraint in the voice even when none was spoken. held breath. a wolf who had spent too long alone.

i was going to hunt.

sólhárr’s ears tipped forward, neutral. the wind stirred his hocks.

come with me.