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sigvard does not budge when she stepped into his space—if anything, he seemed to claim more of it, squaring his stance in the broad, easy way of men who had never once felt outmatched. pale green eyes dragged over her with frank curiosity, a slow rake that held neither shame nor apology.

mm. fox dens are poor beds, he concurs, amused. the edges of his accent roughen the consonants, clipping the vowels. they are… how you say— he twitched his jaw, searching for the word, stingy. stingy with comfort.

her name earned a brief, low sound in his chest—approval, or something like it, hard to tell. wormwood. fitting for a sharp little thing like her, he thought.

he dipped his head, more to measure her than to greet. sigvard, he answered. his gaze peels away from her briefly, circling their surroundings, and he finds himself just as lost as she is. fate takes strange liberties, ja? his mouth curled, lopsided and feral. it is not a question—he already decided it true. but she does not take without giving. come—let us see where she put us,