The question lingered as Thalorin stepped forward, his face softening with recognition.
"Griesla," he called, his voice a gentle summons as he stretched his arms out, inviting her into a hug.
The name rolled off his tongue with familiarity, a thread of tenderness woven into it.
Griesla's embrace with Thalorin unfolded with a quiet, sorrowful grace, her slender arms wrapping around him with a tenderness that seemed to carry the weight of unspoken pain.
Her pale cheek rested softly against his chest for a brief moment, the delicate touch as if she were afraid to press too hard, as though she might break if she did.
Her movements were slow and deliberate, each gesture drawn out, as if holding him required more strength than she had left.
It felt as though every movement took a little more from her, each one a quiet drain on her already fragile spirit, leaving behind only the faintest trace of her sadness.
