We've got the right to live, fight to use it
Soren stretched his legs out in front of him, leaning back on his hands, perfectly content to lounge in the sun like a cat on a windowsill. Her answer drew a spark of laughter from him—not loud, but real, and quick to fade. He didn’t ask what she meant, though. Didn’t press. He respected the art of holding one's cards close.
When she asked his name, his grin widened just enough to show teeth, fangs glinting. “Only if you say please,” he said, mocking a solemn tone, but the fire in him had already mellowed, and it wasn’t meant to sting.
A beat passed. Then, with a shrug of long limbs and a glance down at her companion, he relented. “Soren.” He didn’t offer more than that. No family name, no origin, no explanation of what he was doing perched on a roof playing at riddles with seers. Just the name.
“And you?” he asked, voice still light. “Or shall I just keep calling you ‘well girl’ in my head?”
When she asked his name, his grin widened just enough to show teeth, fangs glinting. “Only if you say please,” he said, mocking a solemn tone, but the fire in him had already mellowed, and it wasn’t meant to sting.
A beat passed. Then, with a shrug of long limbs and a glance down at her companion, he relented. “Soren.” He didn’t offer more than that. No family name, no origin, no explanation of what he was doing perched on a roof playing at riddles with seers. Just the name.
“And you?” he asked, voice still light. “Or shall I just keep calling you ‘well girl’ in my head?”
Soren
