Moonstone Quarry [m] snow trickles

his blood turned molten.
not since the first light fell upon forneskja’s quarry had he seen such a woman—no, his woman—lit with promise, power, and want. her words sank into his flesh like iron to forge, carving her name alongside his upon the stone of fate. fleur. seiðkona. wife.
the kiss left him breathless and branded, and he let her take it, let her mark him with lips and love and fire. when she broke it and turned, his gaze followed like a beast entranced. her tail curled like a flame; her look over-shoulder could have crumbled kingdoms. and solharr? solharr was only a man, and hers.
he did not speak. words were dust beneath what rose between them. instead, he followed. without armor, without crown. just flesh, scarred and loyal. just breath, drawn to hers.
as she led him deeper into their haven, he closed the distance with a growl softened to a hum, a vow in the making. you are my home. you are the fire i return to.
and when their bodies met, it was not conquest. it was reunion.
like bone meeting bone again after long fracture.
like the sea pulling tide back to shore.
like two names carved on the same stone.
solharr did not take—he gave. gave his love, gave his soul, gave his name and his night. and through all the flickering heat, he murmured her name again and again, like prayer.
fleur.
fleur.
fleur.
his wife.