Luneshale Pass salgado

he slinks back to camp under the copper burn of a sinking sun.

whatever deed he's done, whatever he's found to sink his teeth into up in the highlands, he does not speak of it.

and his soul feels a little less heavy.

all that dissipates as he comes across fiamma's cairn. a blade of silver hair wedged between crumbled rocks.

turning immediately for the nursery rows of green, soto begins to complete her work.

he weeds.

he mulches.

his back bent and sore by the time he's done.

clean as a knife, these rows of tiny saplings.

if only fiamma was here to see it, comes the unwelcome purl of a voice soto has learned to loathe.