Moonstone Quarry dragonspine

his breath, when it came, was low and even — a slow thing, like wind rolling through the quarry stones. she did not pull away. neither did he. the closeness was nothing he had planned, and yet he did not retreat from it. perhaps he should have. perhaps that would have been wiser.

but his wife had gone.

and so he stood with her in the hush, letting the mist twine around their ankles like some old omen, letting her words stir something long-dormant behind the steady veil of his gaze. i’d hate for you to think i haunt this place alone. his single eye flicked toward her, where she lingered in the mist-light like a pale wraith half-born of frost and starlight. there was a softness in her expression that made something in his chest shift — not a tremor, not yet, but the beginning of something unsettled.

you do not haunt, he said at last, voice a rasp low with sleep and gravel. you keep it warm.

his gaze did not stray, not even now. not even as silence threatened to bloom again between them.

a moment passed. then another.

his voice was quieter when it came again, touched with something unreadable. let us walk. the stone has long memory, but it keeps no secrets. perhaps it will tell us something worth knowing.