Dawnlark Plains forge dust

he lowered his head, brushing her temple with the heavy line of his jaw—rough, quiet comfort, the closest he came to apology. her frustration simmered; he felt it in the tight set of her breath, in the way her ribs fluttered beneath her thinness. even hungry, she held strength in her stance, a stubborn heart refusing to yield.
soon, he rumbled, a vow shaped more by bone than tongue. we find.
his gaze flicked across the snow, imagining small tracks swallowed by wind, imagining blackfell’s lone stare, imagining the grief of a mother torn from her child. her words echoed a truth he did not speak but knew all the same—
the world should burn for such a loss.
he looked back to moondancer, studying the fierce quiet in her face, the storm tucked behind her gentleness. his voice stayed low, meant only for her.
a mother’s pain… is deep.
a beat, breath thick with frost.
we mend what we can.
he nudged the kill closer to her paws—
an offering, a grounding, a reminder that while they hunted ghosts, he would keep her fed, warm, safe.
his shadow fell over her as he stepped closer, not to cage, but to shelter.
rest, he murmured, gravel-soft. then search again.