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he has been awake long before the sun, though not from restlessness, only habit. the north had carved that into him—the dynasty, too: rise early, greet the cold first, challenge the day to try and best him.

but this forest no glittering palace nor north, though it tried with its morning chill and thin wash of fog. dew clung to his pelt in uneven beads, caught in the unkempt rough of his coat. he seasalt even here, as though the sea refused to let him go.

sigvard stalked through the bramble heavy-footed and unafraid, for it was fate guided his steps, and therefore nothing could be a misstep. then he caught her—or at least the scent of her; it is herbal and fresh, light on the nose.

his ears tipped forward, eyes narrowing with interest rather than caution. strangers did not bother him; fate delivered them for a reason. he found her just as she lifted her head to the air, and he watched her openly, unashamedly.

that is trend around here, he rumbled, timbre low like gravel being dragged across wood, at least it entertains. he stepped into view at an angle, broad shoulders pushing aside a curtain of fog, tail carried with relaxed arrogance. his nose twitched, tasting the air she disturbed. long way from home?