Moonstone Quarry dragonspine

he listened.

he always listened. not the kind of man to fill silence for its own sake—solharr let her voice drift between them like the morning fog, settling deep into his chest, where memory and ache had long made a home.

the frostmaiden’s quiet confession met something wordless in him. something cracked, but not broken. something aching, but enduring. he felt it stir like coals under ash.

the quiet places speak louder than the wolves do, he murmured finally, his voice rough with the edge of long-kept grief. mine never sleep. they... sing of things i can't return to. a beat passed. then, with more weight: things i would not return to, even if i could.

there was no venom in it. no bitterness. only truth, shaped by time.

his eye drifted to her—closer now, soft and pale and quiet as snow at sunrise. she did not ask for closeness, but she allowed it. and that, in solharr’s world, was something far more sacred.

he took the final step. not rushed. not hesitant. close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his chest, though he did not touch her.

no, he said lowly, a hint of something warmer, gentler threading beneath the weight of his words, not lonely at all.

and he stood there with her, fire and frost side by side, as the light broke at last across the quarry stone.