The Bracken Woods tell me about how you burned rome to the ground

sega watched the male break from the thorns, his movement stiff with irritation, the scent of scraped skin sharp on the cold air. when he stepped toward him, sega shifted just enough to meet him — not blocking, not yielding, simply acknowledging.

his gaze swept the shallow cuts along the stranger’s legs, then the thicket behind him. a quiet hum moved through his chest, something like approval that the other had chosen sense over stubbornness, even if reluctantly.

he dipped his head once, slow, guiding him with a turn of his shoulder toward the open line of brush. fewer thorns. firmer ground. a hunter’s path rather than a fighter’s.

sega took the lead only for a few strides, then eased aside to let the stranger walk at his own pace, golden eyes flicking briefly to the wounds again.

a silent offer:
follow, if you choose.