Luneshale Pass On sunny days

her eyes softened at his question, though she did not answer right away. the wind was kind to her today—warm, carrying the salt of the distant flats, the memory of the coast. it tugged gently at her fur as she lowered herself near him, graceful, unhurried.

sim, she murmured, voice lilting like the hush of waves. from very far. across water, across stone. her gaze followed his to the pass, tracing its long spine into the horizon. many nights walking. many suns.

there was a faint smile then, wistful, secretive. casal de são simão, she said quietly, though she doubted the name meant much here. my mother called it terra de mel e vento—land of honey and wind. i think... i miss it.

her shoulders lifted in a small shrug, elegant even in weariness. but verapaz, she continued, glancing toward him, it feels... alive. it breathes. like something waiting to grow. her tone held that same reverence one might use for prayer.

you care for it, she observed, soft but certain. and i care for those who care, senhor kemal.