her coat stirred in the breeze like a banner not yet fallen, and she tilted her chin with the faintest, imperious arch — a queen, though no crown gleamed upon her brow. his words drew a dry chuckle from her, low and humorless, pulled from the deep well of a woman who had heard too many pretty phrases laid over graves.
no, she said, voice roughened by sea-wind and long miles, i am not from here. her tone bore no apology, no sorrow. it was a simple fact, carved as cleanly as stone.
she stepped closer, the sand whispering underfoot, pale eyes never straying from his scarred face. there was no fear in her, only the cold, assessing patience of a wolf who had outlasted worse tides than this. a pause, then a flicker of something — curiosity, tempered and sharp-edged.
nor, i think, are you, morwenna mused aloud, letting the wind steal the last syllables from her tongue. her head canted slightly, studying him not with caution, but with the keen discernment of one who had built herself from ruin and flame. the ghosts he carried were not invisible to her. they never were.