He watched her lips shape the name as though it were forged, not spoken, tempered and honed with every syllable. A sound born of salt and sovereignty. „Morwenna,” he echoed, quiet, interested, tasting the weight of it in his mouth like something sacred. His head tilted, silver gaze stilling on her with the scrutiny of a silent oath. „Drakaryn.” A breath, not a question, „A name made to endure.”
The Wraith stepped forward, not encroaching, but drawn, the way a tide leans toward moonlight. His paws moved with the grace of one carved by harsher winters, each step subtle, soundless. The breeze caught his fur and tousled it like a whisper between ancient stones. „A pleasure to meet you,” he offered, voice low and flint-edged, but not cold, and a slight bow of head: „I am Astier.” Just that, his first name, plain and simple, stripped of history and heraldry, laid bare.
When her words coiled around him like sea-mist, the strong gather to strong hands, his mouth tugged, faintly, into a smirk. It wasn’t amusement that touched it, not entirely. It was something else; admiration, perhaps, flicker of something more dangerous. „And what makes you so certain I’d follow?” he asked, voice smooth as hoarfrost, but threaded with the faintest hint of mirth.
Yet in his mind, beneath that alabaster stillness, he already knew. He would follow. He would watch the path this woman carved through the world and walk it; not for power, not for crown or conquest. If any soul could beckon the Wraith to walk behind another... it would be her.