Moonstone Quarry The wolf that always seeks his own kind

sólhárr did not flinch beneath her grip.

his paw, weathered and broad, turned under hers as she asked—not demanded, not commanded—but offered. the old rites. the old power. his eyes, glacier-blue and rimmed in amber storm, met hers steady and still. this was no act of pageantry. it was something truer.

his head dipped once—a nod, slow and solemn.

yes.

for the spirits.
for the nuiruk.
for callyope.
for all that must endure beyond them.

his body was still as stone, but within him burned the quiet vow of a man who did not fear what the blood would give.