Duskfire Glacier mountain bone

she offered warmth and work and rebuilding. the generosity in her voice was soft as new snow, but it struck something flinty in him all the same. he did not pull away from her touch along his jaw. he accepted it, let it ease the stiffness etched into him—but he did not yield to the picture she tried to paint.
women should not shoulder a man’s ghosts. they should not labor to drag his past into something livable.
her kindness was not lost on him.
but it was not hers to spend.
her voice asked of sangilak. he answered with a murmur, low and brief, the word carrying more history than tone.
war survivor, he said. a beat. old fighter.
he looked then to the caches, the trinkets, the hides she had fussed over. he did not want her gathering them. did not want her bending herself to his past as though it were her duty. his stance shifted closer, a quiet, protective presence settling around her. he would provide. he would feed. he would care.
she need not work in such a way.
her earlier words lingered in the space between them, the offer of rebuilding, of staying. he turned from the cave mouth, tail brushing lightly against her flank—a signal, not a dismissal.
he did not want to stay. not yet. the walls still smelled of ghosts.
uktark stepped out into the cold, snow whispering beneath him, and glanced back only once.
come, he rumbled, a simple invitation. not home. not now.
his gaze swept the wide white between the trees.
travel. see taiga.