Ouroboros Spine ᐊ avvik

she did not startle when he drew nearer. only the faintest tilt of her ear betrayed that she heard him at all. the rest of her remained devoted to her craft, hide pulled taut beneath deft claws, the air around her thick with the smell of oil and sun-cured sinew.

his voice rolled over her, rough and proud, and she let it pass like surf against rock. when she did look up, it was with the calm weight of a woman who had seen too many winters to be charmed by teeth.

cultured, she echoed, the word tasting foreign. no. only patient. patience makes finer things than charm ever will.

her gaze traced the length of him, not in admiration but assessment— a hunter’s look, not a maiden’s. he was the prey!

good company fades with the dark, and protection is what men promise when they wish to own. her tone was steady, not unkind, but there was iron beneath it.

she turned the hide, pressing a dew claw to test the grain. i have my own teeth. my own fire. what else would you offer a woman who already keeps her own hearth?

and there it was— a quiet push, simple as the wind, impossible to meet with only pride.