Luneshale Pass chá

margarida had been bent over the last of the herbs, breath warm against the earth, when the faint crunch of stone met her ear. she froze— her head lifting, the bundle of dried sage still caught between her teeth.

the wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of another. unfamiliar. northern. heavy with cold and distance. she turned, slow and poised, her body framed by the hanging pelts that fluttered in the dusk.

beyond the low rise of the mesa, she saw him— a pale shape, broad and worn by the road. not of verapaz.

her eyes softened, though her stance remained still as carved earth. she did not call out. instead, she watched him pass like one might watch a storm roll over the plains— quietly, reverently, prepared to meet what it brought.

beneath her breath, she murmured once more to the land, a prayer for peace, for welcome.

protege-o também.