Luneshale Pass chá

margarida watched him through the thin veil of smoke that rose from her drying herbs, her breath hitched. the stranger was pale as salt, a man carved from the north itself! his fur thick, his shoulders heavy with distance.

his apology was wordless, but she read it easily in the way he shifted, the way his eyes turned aside. she did not fear him. instead, she straightened from her work, brushing the soil from her chest with a light, fluid motion.

pobre alma, she murmured softly, not for him to hear. poor soul, adrift in this strange place.

her gaze followed the small frown that creased his brow. hunger, exhaustion— she knew those signs well. so she turned back to her bundles, selected one of the smaller parcels wrapped in cured hide, and set it gently upon a flat stone between them.

a gesture, not demand. offering, not pity.

then, with quiet dignity, she bowed her head— just enough for respect— and returned to her work, though one dark eye lingered on him still.