Her small hand was warm and defiant against my cheek. Her fingers tangled in the dense fur. The single word she spoke - the name that had been sealed away for seven centuries - wasn’t just a whisper of curiosity. It was a spear.
“The man is dead!” I roared. The sound tore from my throat, not as a threat to her, but as a violent assertion to the mountain itself. The name was a weakness.
I slammed my fist into the furs, the impact barely cushioned by the pelts. I had to create space, I had to reestablish the rules of the dark before she realized the extent of the chain she held.
I pulled away from her. The sudden loss of my warmth caused her to shiver violently. I moved to the edge of the bed and sat. My back was rigid and I forced myself to remain under control.
“You saw the rules
