Firefly Glen [BWH] névoa ‹‹

margarida’s ears turned toward them as they spoke— father and son, the rhythm of their voices carrying like river stones tumbling through shallow water. she had not heard such warmth in moons.

tvar, she echoed softly, shaping the name between her teeth like a prayer. and falcon.

the boy’s curiosity was bright and boundless, and it brought the faintest glimmer of fondness to her gaze. she watched him take a bite of the small creature, tail sweeping once against the grass.

é... she began, the word curling from her tongue like a sigh. she paused, searching, tasting the air for the common term. none came. her smile ghosted. ...marmota, she said finally, the syllables lilting and strange. it lives in the stones, fat from the summer. not so fast, but clever.

she nudged what remained of the carcass toward him gently. good for learning teeth and patience.

her eyes lifted again to tvar, sunlight striking soft against the pale planes of her face. you teach him well, she said after a moment, accented voice quiet but certain. many fathers would not bring their sons to the hunt.