Duskfire Glacier mountain bone

the shadows gathered around him. old friends, ghosts of companions that relied on him. they felt him up, placing spiritual palms to his chest, his neck. a ritual of suffocation.
but his moondancer's touch was real. real, and it brought him back to this cave. alone, with her. her touch against his warhewn body. a priestess blessing the knight. he did not move when she pressed the hide over his shoulders; it slid across him like a memory he did not invite, heavy with the ghosts of women who had laid claim here before.
it was incredibly intimate how he let her touch her. not a soul had been so close to him like this since his issumatar.
her voice, her gentleness, her certainty— us only— it brushed against something deep, something he had long since buried beneath ice and iron.
still he said nothing.
he only watched her, the pale of her fur glowing like a shard of moon caught inside the mountain. she was warmth where he was cold, softness where he had only ever been shaped sharp. her trust sat in the space between them, a fragile thing he did not know how to hold.
when she touched her nose to his, he leaned into it— not much, barely a breath— but enough.
a glance back towards his lodge. where he'd met with blackfell for war. where he instructed his men to march upon the saatsine. narrowed eyes built tension in his brow. and when he spoke it was earthrich and broken.
there are things you won’t like about me.