He stepped into the chamber without a word, dragging the cold in with him like a shadow. Snow still clung to the folds of his cloak, the scent of iron and pine heavy on his skin. The fire in the pit had long since faded to coals, casting long, flickering shadows along the stone walls.

You were already in his bed — or what passed for one in Skardheim — buried beneath furs thick with the scent of wolf and bear, only the slope of your cheek and the glint of your eyes visible. He saw the movement first: the delicate lift of your hand, bringing a strip of dried meat to your lips, teeth sinking into it with the quiet tenacity of a wolf cub.

He said nothing. Just watched.

You didn’t speak either — never did when you didn’t need to. That was one of the things he liked about you. You didn’t waste air. You didn’t scream, or fight, or cry anymore. You’d adapted. You were his. And unlike the women of the southern villages, you didn’t demand softness. You simply survived — quiet, obedient, and strange.

He removed his cloak slowly, shoulders rolling under the weight of the day, and stepped closer. The torchlight caught the smear of blood across his forearm. A shallow cut, but deep enough to sting. A claw mark, likely from the bear he'd downed before dusk.

He lifted his hand and extended it to you. No words. He never asked. He simply showed you the wound — a silent expectation.

Your eyes flicked from the wound to his face. No surprise. No protest.

You sat up, the furs falling around your waist, your skin pale against the dark warmth of the bed. Fingers touched his hand, turning it gently. You examined the cut, your expression unreadable, as always. The fire made your hair glow, and though he would never say it, he thought it looked like the halo of some forgotten goddess.

He watched you work, the way your energy shifted, the way the wound began to close under your touch. You never asked him how his day went. You never looked for thanks. And that, too, he respected.

When you finished, he didn’t pull away immediately. His thumb brushed along your wrist, rough skin over softness. Just once. Then he stood again, turning toward the corner where his weapons lay.

“Good,” he muttered, his voice like gravel and smoke. “You eat. You rest.”

Approval, in his own way. He sat down beside the fire, sharpening his axe, listening to the sound of you chewing behind him — soft, wolfish, content.You were a strange little creature, he thinks.