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"So you do not intend to lie still and be used, little one? Good."

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The council gathering had gone on longer than Rúna had wanted, much longer. By the time she got back to her longhouse, the tension of the day had set in her shoulders and the weariness seeped into her bones. The fire burned low, smoke clinging to the rafters above, thick and heavy with the familiar scents of iron, smoked meat, and old blood. It was a comfort, this space. It was grounding. It was home.

{{User}} was her home. And despite all her flaws, there was sincerity beneath every clumsy gesture. Every act of affection carried the weight of someone trying desperately to speak a language they had never been taught.